The Road from the Monument

by Storm Jameson

  ‘That’s not true. He never! He couldn’t have said it. He — I could tell you everything he said, and it was all as kind as kind. And different. He said I… he told me I reminded him of a woman, some woman in some painting, and he made me put my hand here —’ she laid her fingers together under her left breast — ‘ like this. To be exactly like the picture…. I tell you, he couldn’t have said what you say.’

  Lambert’s mind jumped. He thought: If that’s not Gregory I’ll eat my hat. It’s him all over…. At this moment he noticed the extreme smallness and roundness of the breasts pushed up by the distortion of her body…. She had been telling the truth. He had no doubt of it now, and he felt a hot anger and contempt. Of all the pompous inflated frauds, he thought. He has pulled all our legs. And what an ass I was never to see through him…. He realised that he was smiling, and wiped the smile off his face at once, ashamed. Nothing to smile at, he thought sharply. No reason to feel delighted because all your life you’ve been admiring and envying a pious scoundrel. You ought to be feeling sickened and unhappy…. And I do, he told himself, I do, I feel damned unhappy.

  ‘This is a bad knock for me,’ he said in a low voice. ‘I’ve known him for forty years. He’s the oldest friend I have.’

  Either she thought he was exaggerating his grief, or it meant nothing to her. ‘I don’t suppose it worries you very much,’ she said in her flat voice.

  At this point it struck him that nothing she had said was a proof. He did not want to frighten her or distress her, but he had to find out. It was not curiosity; it was a duty; he had to know, he had to be absolutely certain. He wanted her, too, to feel that she could confess herself to him as if he were a priest or a psychiatrist.

  ‘Tell me, my dear girl,’ he said, ‘hadn’t you any idea what to do? Didn’t you take any, ah, precautions?’

  She stared at him. ‘I didn’t do anything.’

  ‘Was this — forgive me, was it the first time?’

  ‘Yes, it was.’ She flushed in a disagreeable way. ‘I won’t answer any more questions.’

  ‘Tell me just this. How did you find out that he wasn’t someone called Graham? Where did you get his name?’

  She looked at him sullenly and did not speak. With the idea of gentling her, he put his hand on her arm and stroked it. She drew back, shrinking from him.

  It was almost dark in the room now — the area kept out more light than it let in — and she turned on a very weak lamp behind a paper shade, fly-blown and dirty. In this poor light the room looked even more sorry and sordid. What a place to wait in for a child to be born, Lambert thought. Alone in it, too, with all the heaviness and fears of pregnancy, and no one to turn to for a word or a touch.

  ‘Listen, my dear,’ he said very gently, ‘ at least tell me what money you have. How are you managing? This room…’

  After a moment she said, ‘I had some money. A fair lot. Over four hundred pounds. It was my father’s. He died.’

  ‘Is your mother alive?’

  ‘No. Only my half-sister — she’s older than me, years older. Married. I was living with her.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘In Liverpool, of course. I told you. No —’ her eyes widened, fixing his with a sudden bitterness — ‘it was him I told.’

  ‘Does she know — your half-sister?’

  ‘Oh, no. I couldn’t tell her. I told her I’d been offered a job in London. She — she didn’t care. She was glad enough to get my room.’ Her voice rose wildly, in panic — this was something she had asked herself many times in this horrible little room. ‘I’m all right for now, but what when that money’s gone, when I’ve had the baby, what then? What then?’

  ‘You—’ began Lambert.

  She interrupted him. ‘He must help.’

  ‘Certainly he must,’ Lambert said.

  ‘I can work, I can keep myself,’ she said swiftly. ‘But he must help me with the child.’

  By God he must, Lambert thought, and if he tries to get out of it I’ll have the hide off him. For less than a second he thought with pleasure about punishing Gregory in some way. But he had other things to do first: the first and important thing was to help the poor young creature who had — lucky for her, he thought — fallen into his hands.

  ‘You must come to the office again when he’s there, and see him. When can you come? Tomorrow?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, the day after.’

  ‘I’m not coming at all,’ she said, nearly inaudibly.

  ‘What do you mean?’ He looked at her sharply, hiding the instant suspicion he felt. ‘I quite see that it will be unpleasant for you, but it will be no use my speaking to him unless you’re there yourself. With you there he won’t find it so easy to lie his way out of his responsibilities.’

  The look of sullen obstinacy settled again on her face. ‘No. I won’t come.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I don’t want to.’

  He controlled his impatience. ‘My dear child——’

  ‘I’m not your dear child,’ she said roughly, ‘and I’m not coming to that place again. He must come to me. I’m not asking for anything for myself, only for the child. That’s all — and all I want from him.’

  ‘Then come and tell him so.’

  ‘I’ll tell him here. It’s his place to come to me. He must come here.’

  ‘Why won’t you come to the office?’

  She did not answer.

  ‘You must be reasonable…. At least tell me why.’

  ‘Because I don’t choose,’ she muttered.

  ‘That’s no reason — ‘

  Her mouth worked; she flushed, and for a moment looked positively repulsive. ‘I won’t come again,’ she said loudly. ‘It was the second time. You don’t know — I went to see him at his house, there was a servant, a man, and when I was asking for him he came down the stairs and —’ she lifted trembling and rather ugly small hands — ‘ he turned me off — with that man watching. I don’t know you, he said…. I felt that ashamed. And if you think I — ‘

  Choking, she covered her face with her hands: her fingers made white marks on the flushed skin, and she was shaking violently.

  Lambert remembered humiliations of his own: he remembered the taste, much too well, the terrible exaggerated anguish of being snubbed without being able to answer back. He made up his mind on the instant that, whatever happened, he would see to it that she was all right for money. If he had to, he would help her himself…. In the same instant he felt an intense annoyance that Gregory looked like escaping the unpleasant quarter of an hour more than due to him. But by God, he’s going to hear something from me, he thought.

  ‘Still, you know, you really ought to come,’ he said gently.

  ‘No.’

  He could not go on pestering her. She’s had enough for one day, he thought…. So, in fact, had he: the stuffy shabby room was becoming more and more offensive and unbearable. He stood up.

  ‘Think it over, my dear,’ he said. ‘And don’t worry. I’ll do everything I can. Count on me.’

  She looked at him, wrinkling her forehead. ‘You said that before.’

  ‘But you must do your share,’ he said, smiling. ‘You just think about it a little — and I’ll see you again.’

  Chapter Twelve

  He was late, but he walked part of the way home — to clear his head. It was by no means clear. Except on one point: Gregory, whatever it cost, must be made to behave himself. For his own sake, Lambert thought. Let him behave himself and I’ll do anything I damn well can to help him. After all, he’s my oldest friend. Hypocrite and selfish rascal he may be, but I’m fond of him and I don’t like to see him behaving in a disgraceful way. It saddens me…. Obscurely, he felt that these feelings did him credit.

  He began to imagine the scene…. My dear old chap, there are only two essentials: we must avoid scandal, and we must arrange the young woman’s future on a decent, not too costly basis…. This much agreed, they could go
on to discuss and settle the basis. He himself had better make the arrangements, talk to the young woman, instruct a discreet lawyer, take everything off Gregory’s plate except his conscience. That, my friend, he thought, you must make terms with yourself…. Perhaps a frank gentle reproof… your lapse… atone… if I may be forgiven for saying so, a pity you weren’t more careful… men of our age, you know, old boy…

  A woman with a shopping bag pressed to her robust body jostled him off the pavement, startling him out of his dream. He shook himself. There was a snag, possibly fatal. He could not confront his friend and say reproachfully: You were pulling wool over my eyes, I have the proof here…. Because he had no proof.

  The old boy, he thought, has got to be absolutely frank with me. Just let him come clean and I can help him.… His mind somersaulted. He frowned and thought: To do what? To smother the whole unlucky unpleasant affair, for the sake of the Institute, the Conference in September, and the rest of it. He’s to get off scot free, is he, with my help? My help as usual…. He pulled himself up sharply. Well, why not? He’ll have been punished, by God; he’s not going to relish my knowing all about his little games — not he, not our Gregory…. He felt a rush of kindliness and goodwill. This, he thought quickly, puts me in a position, gives me a kind of moral lever, I must be careful not to abuse. Mustn’t even show I have it. Never give the poor fellow the chance to remind himself that I know something about him he would sooner have been skinned than give away…. A sensation of extreme sweetness and happiness spread through him. Never, he thought, let him feel that I’ve become the de facto head of Rutley — as effectively as I’m the working head now. Never take advantage of his gratitude, his dependence on me — never.

  It was almost seven o’clock. He picked up a cab at Vaux-hall Bridge and leaned back in it, to get as much benefit as possible from the cost of a long journey. A thought stung him, jerking him upright: I’d like to know why he did it, and if there have been many others…. The spasm of envy was absurd and painful. Compared with Gregory’s, his own strictly continent life had been, put it fairly, narrow, dull. Even if, as that detestable fellow Bonnifet had it, Diana’s breasts did very occasionally come between him and the fine arts, he had never been tempted to run off the rails with her or any other young woman. No lapse to atone for, no delirious disgraceful moments…. Oh, take it away, he thought, grinning; I’ve had the best of it. No need to envy Gregory his humbugging life: no regrets.

  He began to consider telling Penny the story, and decided again: No. It would be rash; he was not clear enough in his own mind. Her hatred of Gregory would run away with her, she would force his hand in some way, or would promise him to hold her tongue and then not hold it. No, no, he thought prudently, not yet.

  During dinner, his conscience pricked him a little about depriving her of a bone with so much good meat on it: he threw her another, smaller one.

  ‘Gregory is thinking of bringing Harriet Ellis into the Institute.’

  Penny lifted her head with a look of controlled annoyance. ‘I thought you told me there were no jobs.’

  ‘There’s going to be one soon. Easterby has resigned.’

  ‘Why Harriet Ellis? Why not give Beasley the job? He really needs one.’

  ‘So, according to Gregory, does she. She’s older than Frank Beasley — fewer chances.’

  ‘Did he say she needed money?’

  ‘Not in so many words.’

  ‘Then why on earth? She has far more reputation already than she deserves. Those overdone novels of hers! She does nothing to help herself. I suppose she thinks it beneath her dignity. I watched her at that last Rutley party, mooning about like a statue with her heavy face, and nothing to say for herself, not a word to throw at a dog. I should think she’d bore you all to death.’

  ‘Oh, she’s not so bad as that,’ Lambert said easily. ‘Why do you dislike her?’

  ‘I detest her. She’s pretentious.’

  ‘The last thing I’d have called her.’

  ‘Pretentious, insincere, supercilious.’

  ‘Well… it isn’t decided yet. But Gregory, you know, has the final word.’

  ‘You can talk to him about Frank.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘yes. I’ll see what I can do.’

  He said it without the intention of doing a great deal. He had very little enthusiasm for their friend Beasley; he was not a first-rate mind, nor a first-rate writer. At the same time he believed — he always had believed — in keeping a hand on the appointments, not letting Gregory have them entirely his own way. Gregory was not a good judge of subordinates — look at Bonnifet! — too much swayed by intellectual snobbery, and too little by character. The character of a good subordinate should contain at least a strand of servility and devotion!… He remembered abruptly that Harriet Ellis had been Gregory’s mistress, and thought: Why the devil should I help him to provide for her? Let him, if he wants her kept, pay out his own money…. After this grossness, he felt appeased, and decided to let her have her chance against Beasley.

  The thought of his wife’s fury, if Beasley did not get the job and Harriet did, made him wince slightly. The rough edge of Penny’s tongue was not a joke.

  From the top of the stairs Penny shouted, ‘Aren’t you coming to say good night to Timothy?’

  ‘Yes. Coming.’

  He sat down on the edge of the child’s bed. Putting both thin arms round his neck, Timothy pulled his father’s head down to his. ‘When are you going to take me to the Zoo again?’

  ‘Last time you got very tired.’

  ‘When will you take me?’

  ‘Perhaps on Sunday.’

  ‘Promise?’

  ‘If it’s fine.’

  Timothy laughed. He was warm and smelled cleanly of soap and toothpaste. Lambert thought for a second of the basement he had come from, and shuddered. Stroking his son’s fine soft hair, he thought: Only the best and finest of everything for you, my darling. Every good thing I can get for you…. A ball of light exploded behind his eyes. Why only the de facto head of Rutley?… Those present included the Director of the Rutley Institute of Arts, Mr. Lambert Corry. Sir Lambert Corry. My father, Sir Lambert Corry…. If Gregory had to resign now, with the Conference only half prepared, who else could carry on? It means far more to me than to him, he thought. He has no son. Or none he could be proud of…. My son by a young female I slept with in Nice….

  He felt ashamed, vexed with himself. Freeing himself from his son’s clutching arms, he stood up.

  ‘Now go to sleep.’

  ‘Remember — the Zoo on Sunday. You promised.’

  ‘I promise.’

  Everything, he thought, everything, my darling. I promise everything.

  Chapter Thirteen

  In the morning he spoke to Gregory about the girl. He had prepared what he was going to say, and he said it as genially as — thinking of her in that room — he could. ‘you must take some action. It’s preposterous of you to let things drift. Before you know where you are there’ll be a scene here with her — and one of the gutter papers will get hold of it. We don’t want that.’

  Gregory looked at him with distaste. ‘There is a law of libel, you know. And ways of saving oneself from being molested.’

  For less than a moment his coldness shook Lambert. Could he possibly be innocent? Then his mind hardened. ‘All the same, you don’t want her to come here and create a scandal.’

  ‘This really isn’t your business, you know, Lambert.’

  Sharply vexed, Lambert said, ‘In fact it is. I’m not the Director of the Institute, but if there is any serious trouble here I shall be involved. Besides I don’t like the way you’re letting things rip.’

  Gregory gave him one of his distorted pleasantly mocking smiles. ‘It would, of course, be a pity to involve you in anything disreputable. But I don’t think you need worry.’

  ‘Look here, my boy,’ said Lambert, ‘you can’t play it off the cuff like this — you’re behaving frivolously.�
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  ‘At the moment I’m not playing it at all,’ his friend said calmly. ‘I haven’t time. You’ve chosen the wrong morning for your very sensible remarks. I have a train to catch.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘I’m giving a lecture in Cambridge — and I shall stay the night in King’s. Do you mind?’

  Grinning to hide his anger, Lambert said, ‘Right. I hope you’ll play to a full house…. We’ll discuss this again.’

  Later in the morning, after Gregory had left, Arthur Blount turned up: he had come to sign a dozen letters in his capacity as chairman of the Board of Trustees. Lambert spread the sheets in front of him.

  ‘Ought I to read these?’ Blount asked, in his drawling pleasant voice.

  ‘Just as you please,’ Lambert told him. ‘They’re exactly what we agreed last Friday.’

  ‘I think I’ll take your word for it.’

  He signed, quickly and legibly, his long beautifully smooth fingers handling the pen very much as though it were a fine brush. As he wrote the last signature, he asked, ‘When will our Director be back?’

  ‘Gregory? Late tomorrow. He’s staying to lunch with the Provost.’

  ‘I shall want to see him. Fairly soon. Have you heard from Clarence House?’

  Lambert had to remind himself who lived in Clarence House. I don’t move in those circles, he thought derisively. ‘No.’

  ‘You’ll hear any day. I saw the Queen Mother yesterday at a wedding, and had a word with her about the Conference. She’s pleased with the idea, and she’s going to give us what we asked for — a cocktail party for fifty of the delegates. It’s only a question of which names we submit. Gregory, of course, will go as well, and introduce them. I think I ought to be there. And no doubt my sister will be invited. But the number of delegates can’t be more than fifty.’

  ‘I have the full list here,’ Lambert said.

  He rose to get it. Blount moved his hand lazily. ‘Don’t trouble. The choice needs judgement and tact. I shall have to talk it over with Gregory.’