by Phillip Rock
The dormitories—no more than four beds to a room—were pristine with not so much as a stray sock left lying about. In the study halls and classrooms the students sat in quiet groups, reading or writing in their notebooks. And from the chapel came the sweet sound of the choir at practice.
Mr. Simpson, imposing in his gown, came in on cue and offered to show the new science laboratory. And then T. C., visibly impressed by the lab, wanted to walk around on his own and “poke the nose here and there.” He found nothing to put it out of joint.
“Quite impressive, Greville,” he said as Charles walked beside him toward his car. “Not always so neat and tidy, I would imagine.”
“Few schools are. Even Archdean.”
“Visiting-day behavior. I know what you mean.” He paused, thumbs hooked into the pockets of his waistcoat. “I’m a cautious man. I approached the idea of Derek entering here the way I would approach an application for a loan. I made a few discreet inquiries. Your school may have its detractors, but also its share of friends. I was surprised to discover that a member of my club, the managing director of the Manchester and Midland Bank, had sent his grandson here.”
“John Laird. He’s at Oxford now.”
“You may have Derek. Let us say for a year … possibly more if I see a marked improvement in him. I still have hopes that he will be capable of enjoying the public school experience one day, but it’s the boy’s happiness and well being that is my primary concern at the moment. I’ll send him down by train on Monday. I will ring first and perhaps you could meet him at the station.”
“Of course.”
“Though God knows he could find his own way.”
THERE WAS A picnic in Leith Wood that afternoon, a closing-the-show party, Marian Halliday called it. It was a joyous, boisterous event, marred only by Valerie A’Dean-Spender falling out of a tree, cutting her leg and spraining her arm. Not a child to suffer in silence, her howls and wails coming from the depths of the wood had sent everyone fanning out through the dense stands of oak and beech to find her. Charles carried her back to the school for iodine, sticking plaster, and a sling.
“I must be getting home now,” Marian said after helping Matron with the first aid. “I have my cat to feed.”
“I’m sorry you have to go,” Charles said. He smiled warmly at her as they walked down the corridor from Matron’s room. “Everything worked out marvelously—thanks in no small part to you.”
“Oh, I think he’d made up his mind. We could have been running around in paint and feathers and he’d have placed Derek here.”
Charles laughed. “Paint, perhaps … no feathers.”
“Definitely not feathers,” she agreed. “Look here, if you have nothing better to do tonight why not take pot luck with me? There must be something in the larder I could whip into a meal.”
“I would like that,” he said without hesitation. “Very much.”
She had bought one of the older cottages in Abingdon, a small but solid structure with fieldstone walls and a slate roof set in the midst of a rambling garden choked with flowers and wind-tattered yew. Her huge ginger cat waddled down a garden path to greet them as they got out of the car.
“Hello, Tartuffe,” she called out.
“Unusual name for an English cat,” Charles remarked.
“I was designing a Molière play when I found him. He was just a kitten then … skin and bones and chewed about by the Covent Garden toms. He’s filled out in the past five years.”
“Filled out? He’s a horse!”
The cat trailed them into the house and sat patiently beside his empty feeding bowl in the kitchen.
“You might fix some drinks,” Marian said as she picked up the cat dish and placed it on the sideboard. “You’ll find a cocktail cabinet in the parlor.”
The cottage had been decorated with the elegant simplicity of a modern London flat. Bright paintings and watercolors lined the white walls.
“You have a charming house,” he said, handing her a drink.
“Thank you. It was terribly ‘olde gifte shoppe’ when I first saw it. All chintz and brass hangings. The owners were dismayed when I told them I didn’t want the furnishings.” She raised her glass to him. “Here’s how.”
“And to you. For your successful pantomime this morning.”
“My pleasure. In fact, it started the wheels turning. There’s something wondrously picturesque about the school. The building, the orchard … the old courtyard and the lawns. Can’t you just imagine Hamlet or Macbeth played against such a setting? A Shakespeare festival in the summer, out of doors—a professional troupe, mind you. Split the box office. How does that strike you as a fund raiser?”
He almost choked on his gin and tonic. “You’re incorrigible. You’ll have us selling home-made jams next.”
She sat on a sofa and cradled her glass in both hands. “I have a practical mind. It’s from growing up on the genteel edge of poverty. I still think it’s a good idea. Something the Old Vic might go for … two weeks every August. Draw the holiday crowds. Become an established institution in a few years.”
“You miss the theater, don’t you?”
“Some aspects of it. Working with certain directors I respected … reading glowing comments on my costume designs in reviews. The cast parties in Soho. I don’t miss the shallow little friendships and the constant bickering and character knifing that went with it. But sometimes I think of going back. I had an offer just last week … a revival of a Shaw play at the Lyric in September.”
He took a calm swallow of his drink. “We would hate to lose you.”
“I’d rather hate to go, to tell you the truth. I’m content. A few days teaching, then puttering about here with my painting. And besides, Tartuffe would loathe returning to London. He’s quite the country gentleman now.”
She fixed a supper of cold chicken, potted ham, mustard pickles and a salad which he helped her pluck fresh from the garden. She did not employ a maid, she said, because maids had a distressing habit of dusting her paintings with oily polish rags. And as for a cook, she had never found one yet who could cook as well as she. She waved a chicken wing. “Not that this poor bird is any example. I studied for a year in Paris … at the Comédie … and shared digs with an American girl who was studying at the Cordon Bleu. I’ll fix you a poitrine de veau farcie Gascogne one night that will reduce you to tears. And my canard à la Normande will send you straight to paradise.” She nibbled at the wing. “Have another glass of plonk.”
“Plonk” was a chianti which she bought from a shop in Soho in gallon jugs encased in wicker. Red wine with chicken seemed a heresy to Charles, but after two glasses of the stuff it began to take on a mellow affability. He felt mellow himself, totally at ease. He sipped his wine and watched her as she talked, the lovely, expressive face, her long, slim-fingered hands moving to emphasize each word—gestures more Gallic than North London Irish. She had changed before dinner into American-style slacks and a blue cotton jersey. He watched her as she cleared away the dishes and carried them into the kitchen—slim hips and long legs, breasts moving softly beneath the vivid blue cloth.
“Let me help,” he said, following her into the kitchen. “I know how to wash up.”
“Do you?” she laughed. “I’m sure you’ve never washed up in your life.”
“I’m willing to learn.”
“Not with my Limoges, thank you. You can have a brandy and watch.”
He poured Armagnac into a snifter glass and leaned against a heavy wood kitchen table.
“I’ve been thinking of Derek Ramsay. ‘Fat Chap,’ Valerie calls him.”
“Oh, dear,” she sighed. “Everyone will be calling him that now, I suppose. Valerie A’Dean-Spender is like the BBC.”
“It won’t matter. No malice to it. The kids love their nicknames. They wear them as medals.” He swirled the brandy around in the bell-shaped glass. “Coming to Burgate is going to make a profound change in Derek’s life. Mine as well.”
“I really don’t know, but I have an odd sort of feeling about it. It’s like chemistry. A tiny substance is added to a compound and that compound is changed utterly. A catalyst. I feel that Derek is a catalyst in some mysterious way. My standing here in your kitchen—”
“Little Ramsay’s doing?”
“I think so. In a manner beyond explanation.”
She rinsed the last of the plates and placed it in a wood rack to drain. “It’s true you never came here before. Although you were invited. More than once.”
“Something held me back. I apologize.”
“No need. I can understand how difficult it can be sometimes to face social engagements. I went through a stage during my divorce when I didn’t want to be around anyone.”
“My … ‘stage’ lasted for years.”
“Past tense now?”
He looked steadily at her face. Her eyes, he noticed for the first time, held tiny flecks of gold. “Very much in the past tense.”
He poured another brandy and one for her, and then they went into the parlor, the sun’s last rays touching the west-facing windows, glowing deep rose through the glass. Tartuffe lay on a chair, doglike, huge head resting on his paws. Marian sank back on the sofa with a sigh.
“I love this time of day.”
“So does your cat, it seems.”
“A highly civilized creature when night comes. No prowling about in the dark undergrowth for him. An easy chair, preferably a coal fire in the grate. I expect him to smoke a pipe one day and wear slippers.”
Charles smiled and sat beside her. “I envy the beast.”
“For living a hedonistic life?”
“For living it with you.”
The sun dipped beyond the wooded slopes of the hills and a purple afterglow filled the room. Marian leaned forward and placed her glass on a table. “That was a charming thing to say.”
“It’s what I feel. A sudden, irrational envy.”
“He won’t mind. I certainly don’t.”
Her face was in profile, as sharply etched as a silhouette cut from black paper. The paper had substance, a perfumed warmth, velvet against his lips as he bent impulsively and kissed her cheek. “I have enjoyed this day,” he whispered.
“So have I,” she said with a throaty softness.
And her lips were soft … and her body soft under his gentle hands as she slipped back against the cushions and enfolded him in her arms.
The night wind stirred the curtains and moaned under the eaves. Tartuffe opened his tiger eyes, stared unblinking into the darkness for a time, and then closed them in sleep.
5
ALBERT THAXTON, ON his third day of the summer holidays and still wearing his school uniform, picked up the morning mail and brought the bundle of letters and newspapers into the dining room.
“Cripes! A fair amount in the post this morning, sir.”
He placed the pile on the table next to Martin, who was pouring his first coffee of the day. Albert’s cheerfulness in the morning took getting used to.
“Thank you. Had your breakfast?”
“Oh, yes, sir. An hour ago. Mrs. Bromley is a super cook. Sausages … bacon … eggs and fried bread …”
Martin winced and took a swallow of black coffee. The thought of food made him feel queasy. He’d spent the evening with Jacob Golden drinking martinis and discussing the problems of the world. The only problem worth considering at the moment was how to get rid of his hangover. He rang for the housekeeper and asked for a glass of tomato juice and a bottle of Worcestershire sauce.
“And anything else for you, Master Thaxton?” the woman asked. “There’s some sausages left … and a gammon rasher.”
“Oh, yes, please, Mrs. Bromley. That would be super. And perhaps a bit of toast and marmalade.”
“God!” Martin grunted. “Where do you put it?”
Albert grinned and sat down at the table. “Making up for what they feed us at school. Porridge and treacle.”
“And dry crusts and water, I suppose.”
“Not quite so horrid as that.” He toyed idly with the sugar bowl. “Were you able to discuss the matter with Mr. Golden, sir?”
“I was. He’d like nothing better than to put you on as a copyboy for the summer, but he’s afraid there might be a few problems if he did.”
“Problems?”
“Resentment from the other boys. The ones who have to work for a living. So many people out these days. I’m sure everyone on the paper knows someone who’s desperate for a job.”
“I can understand that. They’d put mine down to rank favoritism. I wouldn’t want that. And it is true about the slump. I listened to the wireless last night before going to bed. The Board of Trade released the latest unemployment figures. Rather frightening.” He pulled a small notebook from the pocket of his blazer. “I jotted it all down in shorthand, in case you’d be interested.”
“Taken to carrying a notebook?”
“Oh, yes, sir. A conscientious reporter carries one at all times. I thought it would be a good idea if I got into the habit of it.”
“You’re really serious about all this, aren’t you?”
The boy nodded vigorously. “More so than ever. I really buckled down to languages this term … and mastering Pitman. I practiced my strokes an hour a day, on my own time.”
“Good for you. Don’t be too disappointed. We’ll work something out. I’ll have a talk with Joe Johnson at INA. A wire service is not much different from working on a newspaper. Something might turn up there, if only for a week or two. It would get your feet wet. In the meantime, we can just knock about and enjoy ourselves. Ned said I wasn’t to spoil you, but what the heck.”
“Ned believes in hard work and no nonsense. Idle hands and all that. If he sees me spending an hour reading the Times he thinks I’m frittering my life away. What I’m actually doing is dissecting the method of putting a paper together. Not something they teach at school.”
“I understand. I used to read every paper from cover to cover when I was in college. When I got my first job with the Chicago Herald I had the style down pat. Keep it up.”
When Albert’s second breakfast arrived, Martin avoided looking at the loaded plate and began to sort through the mail. There were the usual number of household bills which he set aside for Mrs. Bromley to check over; four or five letters requesting money for various charities; a couple of invitations to cocktail parties honoring people he had never heard of; a letter—sent airmail via the Graf Zeppelin—from an old girlfriend in New York that was as light as the blue onion skin paper on which it was written. He sighed and wiped his reading glasses with his tie. Hard to imagine by her frothy tone that only two years before they had been in the midst of a love affair of operatic intensity. There was a letter from Germany, from Scott Kingsford, postmarked Hanover. It was, in the manner of all his ex-boss’s letters, terse and to the point. More in the manner of a cablegram.
Arriving London third August. Staying Ritz. Keep day open. Important matters to discuss. Though much is taken much abides. CBC Radio off the canvas at the count of nine and counterpunching like a sonofabitch. Dramatic … thrilling … revolutionary advancements here in radio engineering and CBC acquiring U.S. patent rights. Will discuss. Don’t let me down.
Scott
Curious. He folded the letter and slipped it into his pocket. The final envelope was buff colored, the Stanmore crest embossed on the flap. It was an invitation …
The Earl and Countess of Stanmore request
your presence at the 35th ANNUAL CHARITY BAZAAR
AND FETE, Abingdon Pryory, 26 July 1930
His aunt’s copperplate handwriting softened the formality …
My dearest Martin,
Come down on the Friday. Alex and her children arrive from America on the 23rd. Also, Fenton and Winifred depart for India in September. A long weekend party of welcome, of farewell—and to honor the Gl
orious Fourth, our own dear Independence Day.
He would phone her and tell her he would be bringing Albert. She would be delighted. The more the merrier.
“We’re invited down to Abingdon Pryory this weekend, Albert. A Fourth of July celebration.”
“Fourth of July?” He made a rapid calculation. “Saturday will be the twenty-sixth, sir.”
“Yes, but my aunt isn’t a stickler for dates. You’ll enjoy yourself—and I’ve always wanted you to see the place.”
“The country house where Ivy was in service?”
“That’s right. Down in Surrey.”
“Exactly what sort of maid was she?”
“What they called an upstairs maid. Then she became a lady’s maid … the personal servant of my cousin Alexandra. Alex was eighteen … Ivy a year younger.” He smiled in fond memory. “Boy, let me tell you, seeing the two of them together was seeing the two prettiest girls in England … bar none. You’ll meet Alexandra this weekend. She lives in California now.”
Albert crunched a piece of toast between his teeth. “Blond woman?”
“Yes. How did you know?”
“Mum used to keep a snapshot on her dressing table. Ivy and a blond girl, both in uniform standing in front of a tent. Lady Alexandra Greville. Is that right?”
Martin nodded. “That was Alex. She and Ivy became the best of friends. They served together in France for over a year on the hospital trains … Rouen to the Somme.”
“Odd, come to think of it.” He chewed slowly and took a swig of tea. “Their being friends, I mean. Never could have happened if it hadn’t been for the war. Rather a democratic institution in its own horrible way. May I see the invitation, sir?” He studied it, running a finger across the heavily embossed lettering. “Crikey. The Earl and Countess of Stanmore. How would I address them, sir?”
“A simple ‘ma’am’ will do for my aunt, though I imagine by the end of our stay she’ll have you calling her Hanna. As for the earl … just call him ‘sir.’ God knows you won’t have any trouble saying that.”
THEY TOOK THE three fifteen from Waterloo on Friday afternoon. Charles was on the platform to meet them when the train pulled into Abingdon thirty-five minutes later. There was a pronounced change in the man, Martin was thinking as he introduced him to Albert. His clothes for one thing. The baggy, shapeless tweeds had given way to white summer flannels and a dark blue blazer of faultless cut. But it went beyond mere haberdashery. His cousin’s eyes had a sparkle and vitality that he hadn’t seen in many years. There was a radiant air of cheerfulness and well-being about him.
