‘Adulterers are always asking the courts for discretion,’ Peter Templer used to say, ‘when, as a rule, discretion is the last thing they’ve been generous with themselves.’
If Priscilla thought her husband still stationed on the East Coast, she would of course not expect to meet him here. On the face of it, there was no reason why she should not dine with Stevens, if he happened to be passing through London. A second’s thought showed that what seemed a piece of preposterous exhibitionism only presented that appearance on account of special knowledge acquired from Lovell. All the same, if Priscilla were dining here, that meant she had cut the Bijou Ardglass party. So unpredictably do human beings behave, she might even plan to take Stevens on there later.
‘Is that her husband with her?’ asked Mrs Maclintick. ‘I’ve never had the pleasure of meeting him. I suppose you look on him as the man who cut you out, Moreland?’
I was surprised she knew about Moreland’s former entanglement with Priscilla. No doubt Maclintick had spoken of it in the past. As Moreland himself had remarked, she and Maclintick must, at least some of the time, have enjoyed a closer, more amicable existence together than their acquaintances inclined to suppose. The Maclinticks could even have met Moreland and Priscilla at some musical event. Anyway, Mrs Maclintick had turned out to know Priscilla by sight, had evidently gathered scraps of her story, at least so far as Moreland was concerned. That was all. She could not also be aware of other implications disturbing to myself. So far as Mrs Maclintick’s knowledge went, therefore, Priscilla’s presence might be regarded as merely personally displeasing, in her capacity as a former love of Moreland’s. However, so developed was Mrs Maclintick’s taste for malice, like everyone of her kind, that she seemed to know instinctively something inimical to myself, too, was in the air. Moreland, on the other hand, having talked with Lovell only a short time before, could not fail to suspect trouble of one sort or another was on foot. Never very good at concealing his feelings, he went red again. This change of colour was no doubt chiefly caused by Mrs Maclintick’s not too delicate reference to himself, but probably he guessed something of my own sentiments as well.
‘The girl’s Nick’s sister-in-law,’ he said. ‘You seem to have forgotten that. I don’t know who the army type is.’
‘Oh, yes, she’s your sister-in-law, isn’t she,’ said Mrs Macklintick. ‘Now I remember. Not bad looking. Got herself up for the occasion too, hasn’t she?’
Mrs Maclintick did not elaborate why she thought Priscilla’s clothes deserved this comment, though they were certainly less informal than her own outfit. Priscilla’s appearance, at its most striking, made her not far short of a ‘beauty’. She looked striking enough now, though not in the best of humours. Her fair hair was longer than at Frederica’s, her face thinner. There was about her that taut, at the same time supple air, the yielding movement of body women sometimes display when conducting a love affair, like the physical pose of an athlete observed between contests. She had a high colour. Stevens, apparently in the best of spirits, was talking noisily. No escape was offered, even though they were the last people I wanted to run into at that moment. It seemed wise to prepare the ground with some explanation of why these two might reasonably be out together. This was perhaps instinctive, rather than logical, because Lovell himself had spoken as if the whole world knew about the affair.
‘The man’s called Odo Stevens. I was on a course with him.’
‘Oh, you know him, do you?’ said Mrs Maclintick. ‘He looks a bit . . .’
She did not finish the sentence. Although her comment was never revealed, one had the impression she grasped pretty well the essential aspects of Odo Stevens, even if only the superficial ones. No great psychological powers were required to make a reasonably accurate guess at these, anyway for immediate practical purposes, whatever might be found deeper down. At that moment Stevens caught sight of us. He waved. Then, at once, he spoke to Priscilla, who herself looked in our direction. She too waved, at the same time began to say something to Stevens. Whatever that was, he disregarded it. Jumping up, he came towards our table. The only hope now was that Mrs Maclintick’s uncompromising manner might save the situation by causing Stevens to feel himself unwelcome; if not drive him off entirely, at least discourage a long conversation. She could easily make matters more bizarre than embarrassing. I felt suddenly grateful for her presence. However, as things fell out, Mrs Maclintick was not placed in the position of exercising an active role. This was on account of Stevens himself. I had completely underestimated the change that had taken place in him. Never lacking in self-confidence, at Aldershot he had at the same time been undecided how best to present himself; how, so to speak, to get the maximum value from his own personality. He held various cards in his hand—as I had tried to explain to Lovell—most of them good ones. At different times he would vary the line he took: rough diamond: ambitious young provincial salesman: journalist on the make: soldier of fortune: professional womaniser. Those were just a few of them, all played with a reasonable lightness of touch. Stevens was certainly aware, too, of possibility to charm by sheer lack of any too exact a definition of personality or background. Some of this vagueness of outline may have had a fascination for Priscilla. Now, however, he had enormously added to the effectiveness of his own social attack, immediately giving the impression, as he approached our table, that he was prepared to take on this, or any other party of people, off his own bat. He himself was going to do the entertaining. No particular co-operation from anyone else was required. He had put up an additional pip since we last met, but, although still only a lieutenant, he wore the mauve and white ribbon of an MC, something of a rarity in acquisition at this comparatively early stage of the war.
‘Well, old cock,’ he said. ‘Fancy meeting you here. This is a bit of luck. What are you up to? On leave, or stationed in London?’
Before I could answer, Priscilla herself came up to the table. She had followed Stevens almost at once. There was not much else for her to do. Even if she might have preferred to postpone a meeting, in due course inevitable, or, like myself, hoped to reduce contacts to no more than a nod or brief word at the end of the evening, Stevens had given her no chance to impede his own renewal of acquaintance. His principle was to work on impulse. Nothing could have prevented him from making the move he had. Now that had taken place, she no doubt judged the best tactical course was to ally herself with this explosive greeting; as good a way of handling the situation as any other, if it had to be handled at all. Besides, Priscilla may have felt that, by joining us, she could keep an eye on Stevens; modify, if necessary, whatever he might say.
‘Yes, why are you here, Nick?’ she asked, speaking challengingly, as if I, rather than her, found myself in doubtful company. ‘I thought you were miles away across the sea. And Hugh—how marvellous to see you again after so long. I was listening to something of yours in a BBC programme last week.’
She was perfectly self-possessed. If aware of rumours afloat about herself and Stevens—of which she could hardly be ignorant, had she bothered to give a moment’s thought to the matter—Priscilla was perfectly prepared to brazen these out. The two of them could not know, of course, how narrowly they had missed Lovell himself. Perhaps, again, neither cared. Lovell’s taste for drama would certainly have been glutted, had they arrived an hour or so earlier. In the group we now formed, Moreland was the one who seemed most embarrassed. Conventionally speaking, he had not risen to the occasion very successfully. His highly developed intuitive faculties had instantly registered something was amiss; while the mere fact he had himself once been in love with Priscilla was, in any case, enough to agitate him, when unexpectedly confronted with her. No doubt he was also piqued at her coming on him in circumstances which must reveal sooner or later he and Mrs Maclintick were making a life together. He muttered something or other about whatever composition Priscilla had heard on the radio, but seemed unable to pursue any coherent conversation. Mrs Maclintick stared at Stevens
without friendliness, though a good deal of curiosity, a reception that seemed perfectly to satisfy him.
‘Look here,’ he said. ‘Are you all having a very special private party? If not, couldn’t we come and sit with you? This is the chance of a lifetime to make a jolly evening of my last night in London for a long time—who knows, perhaps for ever. I’m on embarkation leave, you know, have to catch a train back to my unit tonight.’
He began addressing this speech to me, but, halfway through, turned towards Mrs Maclintick, as if to appeal to her good nature. She did not offer much encouragement; at the same time issued no immediate refusal.
‘Anything you like,’ she said. ‘I’m too tired to care much what happens. Been on my feet all day doling out shepherd’s pie made of sausage meat and stale swiss roll all minced up together. But don’t expect Moreland to pay. I’ve let him have enough out of the house-keeping money to cover our share of dinner—and an extra round of drinks if we can get that.’
Moreland made some sort of protest at this, half amused, half ashamed. Stevens, obviously assessing Mrs Maclintick’s measure at a glance (just as Stringham had, at the party years before after Moreland’s symphony), laughed loudly. She glared at him for treating her self-pity so lightly, but, although fierce in expression, her stare was not entirely one of dislike.
‘We’ll be absolutely self-supporting, I promise that,’ said Stevens. ‘I’ve only got a quid or two left myself, but Priscilla cashed a cheque earlier in the day, so we’ll have to prise it out of her if necessary.’
‘You may not find that so easy,’ said Priscilla, laughing too, though perhaps not best pleased at this indication of being permanently in the company of Stevens. ‘In the end Nick will probably have to fork out, as a relation. Will it really be all right if we join you, Nick?’
Although she said this lightly, in the same sort of vein used by Stevens himself, she spoke now with less assurance than he. Certainly she would, in any case, have preferred no such suggestion to be made. Once put, she was not going to run counter to it. She was determined to support her lover, show nothing was going to intimidate her. No doubt she had hoped to spend the evening tête-à-tête with him, especially if this were his last night in England. Even apart from that, there was, from her own point of view, nothing whatever to be said for deliberately joining a group of people that included a brother-in-law. On the other hand, she had perhaps already learnt the impossibility of dissuading Stevens from doing things the way he wanted them done. Perhaps, again, that was one of the attractions he exercised, in contrast with Lovell, usually amenable in most social matters. Stevens clearly possessed one of those personalities that require constant reinforcement for their egotism and energy by the presence and attention of other people round them, an audience to whom they can ‘show off’. Such men are attractive to women, at the same time hard for women to keep at heel. For my own part, I would much rather have prevented the two of them from sitting with us, but, short of causing what might almost amount to a ‘scene’, there seemed no way of avoiding this. Even assuming I made some more or less discouraging gesture, that was likely to prove not only rather absurd, but also useless from Lovell’s point of view; perhaps even undesirable where Lovell’s interests were in question.
‘I mean you look a bit uncertain, Nick?’ said Priscilla, laughing again.
Obviously the thoughts going through my head were as clear as day to her.
‘Don’t be silly.’
‘Half a minute,’ said Stevens, ‘I’ll try and find a waiter and get another chair. We can’t all cram together on the banquette.’
He went off. Mrs Maclintick began some complicated financial computation with Moreland. This was going to hold the attention of the pair of them for a minute or two. Priscilla had sat down, and, perhaps because she felt herself more vulnerable without Stevens, had her head down, fumbling in her bag, as if she wanted to avoid my eye. I felt some statement should be made which might, at least to some small extent, define my own position. It was now or never. Any such ‘statement’ was, I thought, to be conceived of as the term is made use of by the police, for the description of an accident or crime, a brief summary of what happened, how and why it took place or was committed.
‘I had a drink with Chips this evening.’
She looked up.
‘Chips?’
‘Here—just before dinner. He thought he might see you at Bijou Ardglass’ party at the Madrid.’
That information would at least prevent her from taking Stevens to the restaurant, had the thought been in her mind, though, at the same time, could prejudice any faint chance of herself looking in at the Ardglass party after Stevens had left to catch his train. Such a possibility had to be faced. A chance must be taken on that. It was, in any case, unlikely she would go later to the Madrid. Everything would close down by midnight at the latest, probably before that.
‘Oh, but is Chips in London?’
She was plainly surprised.
‘At Combined Ops.’
‘On the Combined Ops staff?’
‘Yes.’
‘That was only a possibility when I last heard.’
‘It’s happened.’
‘Chips thought the move wouldn’t be for a week or two, even if it came off. His last letter only reached me this morning. It chased all over the country after me. I’m at Aunt Molly’s.’
‘I’ll give you the Combined Ops number and extension.’
‘I had to put Bijou off,’ she said quite calmly. ‘I’ll get in touch with Chips tomorrow.’
‘He thought you might be at the Jeavonses’.’
‘Why didn’t he ring up then?’
‘He hoped he was going to see you at the Madrid—make a surprise of it.’
She did not rise to that.
‘The Jeavons house is more of a shambles than ever,’ she said. ‘Eleanor Walpole-Wilson is there—Aunt Molly usen’t to like her, but they’re great buddies now—and then there are two Polish officers whose place was bombed and had nowhere to go, and a girl who’s having a baby by a Norwegian sailor.’
‘Who’s having a baby by a Norwegian sailor?’ asked Stevens. ‘No one we know, I hope.’
He had come back to the table at that moment. Such as it was, my demonstration had been made, was now, of necessity, over. There was nothing more to be said. The situation could only be accepted, until, in one field or another, further action might be required. That, at least, was so far as I myself was concerned. Recognition of this as a fact seemed unavoidable. The return of Stevens brought about a reshuffle of places, resulting in Mrs Maclintick finding herself next him on the banquette with me on the other side of her. Priscilla and Moreland were opposite. This seating had been chiefly organised by Stevens himself, possibly with no more aim than a display of power. I congratulated him on his MC.
‘Oh, that?’ he said. ‘Pretty hot stuff to have one of those, isn’t it? I really deserved it—we both did—for putting up with that Aldershot course where we first met. It was far more gruelling than anything expected of me later—those lectures on the German army. Christ, I dream about them. Are you at the War House or somewhere?’
‘On leave—going down to the country tomorrow.’
‘Hope you have as much fun on it as I’ve had on mine,’ he said.
He seemed totally unaware that, among members of Priscilla’s family—myself, for example—conventional reservations might exist regarding the part he was at that moment playing; that at least they might not wish to hear rubbed in what an enjoyable time he had been having as her lover. All the same, shamelessness of any kind, perhaps rightly, always exacts a certain respect. Lovell himself was no poor hand at displaying cheek. As usual, a kind of poetic justice was observable in what was happening.
‘I suppose your destination is secret?’
‘Don’t quote me, but there’s been a tropical issue.’
‘Middle East?’
‘That’s my opinion.’
‘Mig
ht be the Far East.’
‘You never know. I think the other myself.’
Until then Moreland had been sitting in silence, apparently unable, or unwilling, to cope with the changed composition of the party at the table. This awkwardness with new arrivals had always been a trait of his, and probably had little or nothing to do with the comparatively unfamiliar note struck by the personality and conversation of Stevens. A couple of middle-aged music critics he had known all his life might have brought about just the same sort of temporary stoppage in Moreland’s conversation. Later, he would recover; talk them off their feet. Now, this change took place, he spoke with sudden animation.
‘My God, I wish I could be transplanted to the Far East without further delay,’ he said. ‘I’d be prepared to be like Brahms and play the piano in a brothel—even play Brahms’s own compositions in a brothel, part of the Requiem would be very suitable—if I could only be somewhere like Saigon or Bangkok, leave London and the blackout behind.’
‘A naval officer I talked to on a bus the other day, just back from Hong-Kong, reported life there as bloody amusing,’ said Stevens. ‘But look, Mr Moreland, there’s something I must tell you before we go any further. Of course, I wanted to see Nicholas again, that was why I came over, but another pretty considerable item was that I had recognised you. I saw a chance of telling you personally what a fan of yours I am. Hearing your Tone Poem Vieux Port performed at Birmingham was one of the high spots of my early life. I was about sixteen, I suppose. You’ve probably forgotten Birmingham ever had a chance of hearing it, or you yourself ever came there. I haven’t. I’ve always wanted to meet you and say how much it thrilled me.’
This was an unexpected trump card for Stevens to play. Moreland, always modest about his own works, showed permissible signs of pleasure at this sudden hearty praise from such an unexpected source. Music was an entirely new line from Stevens, so far as I knew him, until this moment. Obviously it constituted a weapon in his armoury, perhaps a formidable one. He had certainly opened up operations on an extended front since our weeks together at Aldershot. Mrs Maclintick broke in at this point.
Dance to the Music of Time, Volume 3 Page 35
