A Future Arrived

by Phillip Rock

  “Nothing. Lie around and read.”

  “Want to ride over to Burgate with me? I promised Charles and Marian I’d lend a hand.”

  “I’m not much for horses.”

  “I’ll have Gardway hitch something gentle to the trap.”

  A DIRT PATH, hard and dry, meandered across the fields in the general direction of Burgate House School. The horse knew where to go and Colin let the reins dangle as he slouched in the seat, eyes closed, face to the sun. Albert sat beside him, watching the broad chestnut rump of the horse as it plodded along, feeling uneasy, expecting it to burst into a gallop at any second. But all the horse did was to stop as a small boy darted suddenly into its path from the tall grass. He wore nothing but shorts and canvas shoes. In his hands was a crooked stick that he brandished like a gun.

  “Stand and deliver!”

  Colin opened a baleful eye. “Beat it, kid.”

  “Your money or your life!” the boy cried, waving the stick violently back and forth. An older boy suddenly appeared, running through the grass. He grasped the would-be highwayman from behind, plucked the stick from his grasp and tossed it away.

  “Sorry,” he called out. “It’s only Bertie.”

  The boy named Bertie struggled and kicked in a paroxysm of fury. “You! … You! … blitherin’ bloomin’ blinkin’ bleedin’ bastard!”

  The older boy only smiled, turned Bertie upside down, and shook him like a rag. When he plopped him on the ground, Bertie sat there, quiet and dazed.

  “He gets that way sometimes,” the older boy explained with a gap-toothed grin. “But he’s better than he used to be, aren’t you, Bertie?”

  “Aggressive,” Albert said.

  “Yes, sir. He’s my cousin and I look after him. Don’t I, Bertie?”

  Other children were coming over the slight rise and down to the path, an orderly group, some with canvas satchels slung over their shoulders, others with butterfly nets and glass jars. Kate Wood-Lacy shepherded them along. She was sixteen, a tall, full-breasted, wide-hipped girl with a round, pretty face still plump with baby fat. Soft brown hair hung in wavy masses to her shoulders, complimenting her faultless complexion.

  “Hello, Colin,” she said. “Mr. Thaxton.”

  Colin climbed down from the trap and jerked a thumb at the boy on the ground. “That little nut could have spooked the horse.”

  She blushed and pushed a strand of hair away from her forehead. “Sorry. He can be a handful at times.”

  “Not your fault.”

  “I am in charge.”

  “Hey, don’t take being a counselor too seriously. You don’t have to go down with the ship, you know.”

  “You … look nice today, Colin. Are those cowboy boots?”

  “Sure. Genuine Gila-monster skin.” He lifted one leg. “I’ll take one off if you’d like and you can show it to your group.”

  “That’s all right,” she said, blushing deeper. “We’re only doing butterflies today.”

  CHARLES GREVILLE SPLASHED gin into two glasses, added a few drops of bitters and handed a glass to Albert. “Colin give you a gentlemanly drive over?”

  “Grandmotherly, as a matter of fact.”

  “You’re fortunate. Sometimes he races that trap like a crazed Roman in a chariot race.”

  “Only one incident. A tyke tried to hold us up.”

  “Ah, Bertie. We always have one or two of those. Has parents who have no time for him. Too many other delightful things to do. A good many of the truly rich should be sterilized at birth.”

  “He got bounced on his head and then walked away hand in hand with the Wood-Lacy girl, gentle as a lamb.”

  “Kate keeps them all calm. A sweet child.”

  “Shy.”

  “Well, painfully self-conscious at the moment. Suddenly bloomed into a woman since last summer.”

  “Has a crush on Colin, I think.”

  “Does she?”

  “Judging by the way she looked at him in silent adoration. I think he’s oblivious to it.”

  “He would be.” He took a swallow of gin. “It’s been a couple of years since you’ve seen him. What’s your honest impression?”

  “Ingenuous … confused … a boy in a man’s body.”

  “Restless. I suggested he go up to my brother’s place in Derbyshire, muck about with the horses for a couple of weeks before the start of Michaelmas term. Did you ever meet William’s wife, Dulcie?”

  “No.”

  “A grand girl. Bright as a florin, outspoken, unconventional, involved in every conceivable liberal cause. The atmosphere up there quite different from the Pryory, if you get my drift. Mother and Father love the lad, but they are set in their ways … dressing for dinner, that sort of ingrained formality. Colin is like having a large Airedale romping about the place.”

  “He seems to be in his element now,” Albert said, pointing his glass toward the tall windows of the common room.

  Stagehands from the Royal Theatrical Company swarmed across the grounds, arranging lights in trees and shrubbery, unloading props and wicker baskets packed with costumes from large vans, and setting up folding chairs for the audience. Colin moved among them, tall in his slant-heeled boots, a hefty roll of electric cable slung over one shoulder.

  “Yes, that’s Colin,” said Charles. “Raising a sweat and dirtying his hands. That’s joy to him.”

  The annual Burgate House Drama Festival, now beginning its sixth season, had become an established summer event. Charles had opposed the idea at first, fearing that poor critical reception might hold the school up to ridicule. But Marian had persevered and he had finally relented. The first year’s production, A Midsummer Night’s Dream performed by the London Shakespeare Ensemble, had been greeted by every important theater critic with unqualified enthusiasm and delight. Not only did the festival raise money for the school and sundry charities, but the very name Burgate House had taken on a new connotation in the public mind. The old image of antiestablishment radicalism wafted away on the wings of Shakespeare, Sheridan, and Shaw.

  “Will you be staying for lunch, Albert?” Marian asked as she came into the room, looking happy but disheveled. Six-year-old Christopher Michael Greville trailed after her cradling a ginger kitten in his sturdy little arms.

  “Lunch? I just had breakfast … and now cocktails at ten in the morning!”

  “I know,” Marian sighed. “We’re all topsy-turvy here. Tomorrow’s opening night and everything is total confusion.”

  “As it should be,” Charles said. “You told me that yourself.”

  “True, dear. The worse the rehearsals the better the show. This one should be a stunner.” Her son tugged at her skirt and she had to lift him up, cat and all. “There’s a dress rehearsal this afternoon, Albert, if you’d care to watch it.”

  “I’ll wait for the opening. Will you be at the party tonight?”

  “Lord, yes. Wouldn’t miss it for the world. What a mixed bag! High-church pacifists and Mayfair lowlifes.”

  “All in a good cause,” Charles said. “Spanish Relief is bound to attract a few odd lots. Will we be hearing from you, Albert?”

  “If asked,” Albert said with a shrug. “I imagine your mother expects me to give a short talk. War is hell, that sort of thing.”

  “As if one needed to be reminded. When are you riding back into the lists?”

  “I’ll probably know tonight. Jacob should be coming down with Martin.”

  “Feeling healthy enough to take on Mr. Goebbels?”

  “For fifteen rounds—bare knuckle. He’s outdoing himself with outlandish fabrications lately.”

  “Do you think Hitler’s serious? That speech of his the other night in Berlin. Blatant propaganda, or is there a kernel of truth? Will there be war?”

  Albert swallowed his gin. “I don’t believe Hitler wants war with Czechoslovakia just now, Charles. They’re too strong. Skoda makes as good a gun and tank as Krupp. A military setback, even a temporary one, would destroy the c
arefully contrived myth of Nazi invincibility. He’s relying on Chamberlain and Daladier to back down and hand him the Sudetenland on a plate. The Czechs seem willing to fight, but not without positive support from their supposed protectors.”

  “Please!” Marian wailed. “There are enough problems with As You Like It without worrying about that horrid little man Hitler.” She held out young Christopher to her husband. “Look after Kit and cat for a while, Charlie. I promised Joan I’d give her a hand with the costumes.”

  He held his son in his arms. The cat crawled from the boy’s grasp and sat on Charles’s shoulder like a parrot on a sailor. “Is there any way out of this impasse?”

  “I believe so. It means sticking it out, come hell or high water.”

  “Bluff him to the brink of war, in other words.”

  “Exactly. Full mobilization here and in France. But that won’t happen. Chamberlain doesn’t have the stomach for it and too many people believe in giving Hitler whatever he wants as long as it’s east of the Rhine.”

  Charles had a faraway look in his eyes as he gently stroked his son’s head. “A dishonorable price, perhaps … but peace.”

  “No, Charles. Just a dishonorable lull.”

  JENNIFER WOOD-LACY STRUGGLED to concentrate on the itinerary and travel schedule for the Reverend Donaldson and Captain Winters. It was complex, calling for them to appear at peace rallies in five cities within eight days. They were by far the most successful fund raisers and peace-pledge gatherers that No More War International and Calthorpe & Crofts had ever sent out. The Reverend Donaldson and the captain had been world-famous athletes in their youth, both winning silver medals at the 1912 Olympic Games in Stockholm. The Reverend Donaldson, rector of Worley-on-Tyne, was a burly, hearty man who stood well over six feet in height and had a voice to match. Captain Winters was just as hearty and bugle voiced and would have been equally as tall had he not lost both legs at the hip during the battle of Neuve Chapelle in 1915. They made a remarkable team, a blend of classic evangelism and music-hall turn. They had the ability to reduce an audience to relieved laughter ten seconds after that always awkward moment when the good rector wheeled the truncated captain on stage in his little rolling cart.

  She stared at the railroad timetable. Birmingham to Sheffield. Her thoughts wandered. The sun streamed ferociously through the window in her tiny office, scorching the fragile flower on the window sill, the only splash of color in an otherwise drab room. She rose from her desk and went to the window for a breath of air. Tree-shaded Bloomsbury Square lay below, littered with the inert bodies of office workers seeking temporary relief from London’s unexpected heat. Her cubbyhole was rapidly turning into a furnace. Leaving, she walked down the corridor to the toilet where she splashed water on her face and dried it with a towel which, along with the ancient sink, was none too clean. She made a mental note to speak to Tommy about it. He was a good enough office boy, but his janitorial duties left much to be desired.

  So did her appearance. She stared at her reflection in the badly blotched mirror above the sink. She was twenty-one, tall with a willowy grace, slim hipped and small breasted. Her raven-black hair, dark eyes, and ivory complexion imparted a foreign air. She had often been mistaken for Portuguese when she had lived in India during her father’s second tour of duty there. She dabbed at her hair with stiff fingers. It was rich, thick, and shiny, but there was far too much of it. She looked, she thought ruefully, permanently windblown.

  She could hear Mrs. James having one of her interminable squabbles with the office boy and she poked her head into the reception room before continuing down the corridor to Arnold Calthorpe’s office. The overgrown seventeen-year-old lounged in a chair, munching a chocolate bar.

  “When you can find the time, Tommy,” she said coldly, “you might do something about the W.C. It’s a disgrace.”

  Mrs. James snorted and pulled a plug from the telephone switchboard. “He’s busy biting the hand that feeds him, that’s what he’s doing!”

  The boy grinned and munched. “Just expressin’ an opinion, Mrs. James. It’s still a free country. As for the loo, Miss Jennifer, I’ll get to it, never you fear.”

  “The lad tore up his peace pledge, he did.”

  “Now, Mrs. James, I didn’t say I did and I didn’t say I didn’t. All I said was that Golden’s editorial was bang on. Might just give notice and try the bloomin’ army. Three squares a day and a bit of the old adventure thrown in. Maybe your da would put in a good word for me, Miss Jennifer.”

  “Not ruddy likely. Join the navy.”

  She felt distinctly out of sorts as she went into Calthorpe’s untidy office and flopped into a leather chair by the open window. The publisher glanced up from the manuscript he was reading and smiled at her.

  “That was a deep sigh, Jenny. Having problems?”

  “Only in getting them on the proper trains.”

  “It’ll work out. And Reverend Donaldson is a resourceful man. I admire your sense of duty, but there was really no reason for you to come in this morning. Drive down to Abingdon now, why don’t you? Spend the rest of the day in clean country air. What time would you say things would be getting started?”

  “Eightish, I imagine. Knowing Lady Stanmore, there’ll be a smashing buffet, so don’t miss that.”

  “I’m certain Hogarth would be devastated if we did. You might take a few dozen copies of his poems with you. Set them up on a table or something and he can autograph them after the reading. Mrs. James and Tommy sound as though they’re at it again. What’s the flap this time?”

  “Tommy tearing up his peace pledge under the influence of the Daily Post.”

  “Ah, well, quite a few others doing the same I warrant. It’s not easy to remain steadfast in this confusing age. Tides of belief in surprising shifts, so to speak. Jacob Golden went to prison in nineteen seventeen rather than fight in a war he referred to as ‘an obscene mockery imposed by kings’ …” He pointed to the shelves lining every square foot of wall space. “… And Martin Rilke’s An End to Castles continues to be one of our best sellers. Yet neither man believes rearmament or war to be obscene when applied to stopping Herr Hitler. They have, you might say, torn up their pledges as young Tommy has torn up his.”

  “They may have a point.”

  Calthorpe rubbed a thumb across the deep hollow of a scar where a German sniper’s bullet had once plowed his cheek. “God grant them wrong, Jenny.”

  She turned her head and looked down on the square. Girls in light cotton frocks. Men in their shirtsleeves. Children. Baby carriages and dogs. “Yes, God grant that.”

  SHE SHARED A large two-bedroom flat in Mayfair with her sister. It had not been her idea of a London apartment, being far too modern for her tastes, but Victoria had insisted on leasing it. Her objections to it had dissipated during the winter when the American-style central heating had proved such a blessing. When she came in she found Gerald Smith Blair sprawled on the drawing-room sofa reading a copy of Picture Post, a cup of tea balanced on his stomach, a cigarette dangling from his lips. He was a tanned, curly haired blond of twenty-four who seemed to spend more time racing his yacht than reading for the bar. He was Victoria’s fiancé, or ex-fiancé. It was difficult for Jennifer to keep track of his current position in her sister’s life.

  “Hello,” he drawled.

  “And to you, Gerald. Where’s Vicky?”

  He scowled and flipped a page of the magazine. “Getting dressed—for the past hour.”

  Victoria was in her room, seated half naked on the bed painting her toenails. When they had been children in boarding school and had worn uniforms they had been virtually impossible to tell apart, but no one mistook them any more. Victoria was silk to her sister’s tweed, a stylishly coifed, chicly couturiered Mayfair deb.

  “Hi ho!” Victoria called out cheerfully. “You’re home early. Get the sack?”

  “No such luck.”

  “Why don’t you chuck it in? What’s the point anyway? Wor
king for a living must be bad enough—working unpaid for Arnold Calthorpe is absolute madness. I think you’re a masochist at heart.” She scowled at her wet, splayed toes. “Do you think this color does anything?”

  “Not to me.”

  “I’ll ask Gerry.”

  “He thinks you’re dressing. Why don’t you oblige him?”

  “In due course. And, oh, we’re not heading down till after eight. We’re going to a cocktail party first … Jacques Heim’s new showing in Grosvenor Street. You should come along, might give you some idea of style. What are you wearing, by the way?”

  “Haven’t thought about it. I’ll find something appropriate.”

  Victoria raised a dubious eyebrow. “Take something of mine. The pale green Schiaparelli with the leg-o’-mutton sleeves. You’ll look a charmer.”

  “I have my own clothes, thank you.”

  Victoria bent forward and dabbed at a toenail. “So I’ve noticed.”

  She tossed a few things in a suitcase. Her closet was Mother Hubbard’s cupboard compared to her sister’s, but then Victoria’s only passions at the moment revolved around keeping in style and stringing Gerald Smith Blair along.

  The mood of depression that had dogged her all morning faded rapidly as she drove her little two-seater Sunbeam out of London. Leaving the main highway, she darted along narrow country roads to Abingdon, the canvas top folded down, the wind whipping her hair into a tangled black nest.

  Quite a few guests had already arrived and she parked her car among ponderous Daimlers, Packards, and other chauffeur-driven behemoths, including the limousine of the bishop of Guildvale. One of the Stanmores’ footmen carried her suitcase to the house, along with the carton of books which she asked him to place in the ballroom.

  Getting her hair back to reasonable neatness was her first priority. The windows of her room looked down on the west terrace, and as she stood there combing her hair she could see a number of people that she knew, including the bishop and other pillars of No More War International sipping tea and chatting away with Hanna. She didn’t feel up to conversing with anyone at the moment and made her way downstairs through the servants’ stairs and the back passageways to the ballroom. Preparations for the buffet were being made, with servants setting up long, cloth-covered tables along one wall. There was a small table to one side of the bandstand and she began to unpack the slim books and stack them on it. While she was doing this, setting up some books so that the title showed, Spanish Cross by Hogarth Wells, and others to display the poet’s famous portrait by Augustus John on the back cover, a man wandered in from the terrace and stood near her, scowling slightly at the book jacket. He was almost excessively good looking with pale violet eyes and the longest lashes she had ever seen on a man.