by Alec Waugh
We dined at the George. Raymond was the host. He was in the highest spirits. He was responsible for her make-up and was delighted with his achievement. ‘Doesn’t she look wonderful? I thought her something of a dream when she got off the train this morning, but now there’s all the difference in the world: I don’t know how she’ll ever have the heart to be a girl again.’
In the restaurant she had had of course to take off her cap. Her hair was plastered down with brilliantine. Caked on the back of her neck, it increased her air of unhealthiness. I could not think why the management did not turn her out.
All this happened in 1924, but I have never seen in a whole half century since anything that looked so degenerate. Nothing, however, could diminish Raymond’s delight in her appearance. I had never seen him so ecstatic. He plied us with wine. The party became very gay, so gay that by the time that we had reached our port, I had begun to see Judy through Raymond’s eyes. ‘There’s no one like her, is there, there couldn’t be anyone so special.’ Special, well, she certainly was that. There was no one like her. I let my glass be refilled. By the time we left the hotel, I, too, was in an anapaestic mood.
Evelyn’s party was being held in a graduate’s rooms in King Edward Street. There were about ten guests. Bottles of burgundy stood along the mantelpiece; there was some tawny port, and a bottle of cognac. Everyone had already dined, but there was a cheddar cheese, three loaves of bread, a dish of butter and a fruit cake.
The party soon became extremely noisy. I kept as far away from Judy as I could, but my eyes were on her. Evelyn, too, kept away from her, but he played his part as host, bringing up one guest after another to be introduced. ‘It’s going all right, isn’t it?’ he whispered conspiratorially. Judy certainly was having a high time. Her eyes were bright; her laughter constant. Raymond never left her side and presently a puzzled guest came over to me. ‘What’s the matter with Raymond?’ he enquired.
‘Nothing as far as I know. Why?’
‘He’s suddenly gone “pi”. I was telling quite a harmless story, spattered, I must admit, with a number of four-letter words, but au fond a perfectly harmless story, if you follow me. Suddenly Raymond said, “I must ask you not to use that kind of language.” What’s biting him?’
I chuckled inwardly. It was precisely to hear that kind of language that Judy had wanted Gyges’ ring. She was getting what she had come for. It was ironic that Raymond should be trying to protect her aural innocence. As the evening progressed I found myself able to look at her with less dismay. Her cheeks were flushed now and she looked less unhealthy, but her presence was certainly surprising those of the guests who were not in the secret.
‘Who on earth is that extraordinary creature Raymond’s sponsoring?’ I was asked.
‘A jockey,’ I said. ‘Didn’t you know he was a racing man?’
‘Ah, that accounts for it.’
A few minutes later I was hoping that this explanation would satisfy a more stringent, more perceptive examination. Suddenly the noise of the party was interrupted by a banging on the door.
‘What is this impertinence?’ demanded Evelyn. But it was not an impertinence. It was the proctor with his bulldogs. A voice demanded ‘silence’.
‘I need your names, please, gentlemen, and the names of your colleges.’ The bulldogs came round taking names.
‘Alec Waugh,’ I said. ‘I live in London. I am staying at the George.’ They took name after name. Finally they reached Judy. They looked her up and down. Would the bulldogs accept her? She lowered the pitch of her voice. ‘Mr Stanley Maine, London, staying at the Randolph.’ They took her particulars and then moved on. ‘Mr Terence Greenidge, Hertford College.’ It was a great relief, yet I felt that it implied some criticism of the contemporary mores that so repellent an object could pass as a man.
At last, the last name was taken. The proctor spoke: ‘I will ask all members of the University to return immediately to their colleges.’ The bulldogs watched the members of the University leave the room; Evelyn as he passed me whispered, ‘Breakfast at the Randolph nine o’clock. Tell Mr Maine.’
It was a cheery breakfast, though Judy was concerned about her hosts. ‘Is this going to get you into trouble ? I’d hate it if that happened.’
Raymond shrugged. ‘There isn’t much that they can do, provided that you’re looking likely to make a reasonable showing in the schools. How do you stand with your college, Evelyn?’
‘I have my private war with Cruttwell.’
Cruttwell was the Dean of Hertford. Evelyn was to deal with this private war in A Little Learning.
‘Crutters will be pleased,’ he said. ‘It will be extra ammunition for the final showdown.’
That showdown was to come in the following September when Evelyn got a bad third in Mods, had his scholarship taken away, and started the period of his life that he entitled ‘in which our hero’s fortunes fall very low’. But all that was ten months away. Its shadow did not cloud our morning. We sat over the breakfast table until after ten. Then I suggested that as Raymond had a car, we should lunch at Thame, at the Spread Eagle.
‘We’ll start at noon,’ said Raymond. ‘That’ll give me ninety minutes to show Judy round such of the sights as she has not seen.’ As they walked away together down the Corn, Evelyn and I exchanged a glance. ‘That seems to have worked out,’ I said.
When they returned, it was very clear that they had thoroughly enjoyed their time together. Judy was bright eyed and rather giggly. Raymond was oratorical, talking at length and for effect on abstruse subjects such as ‘the case for Greek in elementary schools’ as though he were seconding a motion at the Union.
2
Judy and I caught an afternoon train back to London. It had come from the West, was crowded, and we had difficulty in finding seats. We sat on opposite sides of a compartment, two places away. I had brought the Observer. Raymond had given her The News of the World. ‘It is time that you were acquainted with the facts of life,’ he said. I studied my Observer dutifully, but she let her lurid sheet fall forward on her lap. Her face wore an abstracted look.
We reached Paddington shortly after six. Even for Londoners, London has never been very lively on a Sunday evening. You have to know the city well to know where you can beat up entertainment. Judy and I looked questioningly at one another. She hesitated. She clearly did not want to go home alone. I had a suspicion that she had something to get off her chest. It was up to me to make some suggestion. Pubs would not be open until seven, and after the lunch at the Spread Eagle I was out of funds.
‘The cook in my flat has Sunday off,’ I said. ‘But I’m sure the housekeeper could scramble a few eggs and I’ve got some wine.’
‘This is exactly what I wanted,’ she said later, as she settled herself after supper before the fire, her feet curled under her, her head leant back against a chair. ‘Now,’ she said, ‘you can tell me all about him.’
‘I haven’t much to tell you. Much that you don’t know already. He’s a second son.’
‘That makes him an honourable?’
‘That makes him an honourable.’
‘And that’s how I address him on an envelope ? The Hon. Raymond Peronne.’
‘That’s how you address him on an envelope.’
‘But I introduce him just as Mr.’
‘Exactly.’
‘That seems a pity. Still ...’ She paused. ‘The Hon. Raymond Peronne. It’ll be the first time I’ve addressed an envelope that way.’
‘So you think that you’ll be writing?’
‘I think so, yes, don’t you ?’
‘It looked that way.’
‘No danger, is there, of his being one of those?’
‘Not the slightest. That’s what Brian Howard and the rest complain about.’
‘Has he a special girl friend ?’
‘That’s what I wouldn’t know.’
‘You could find out, couldn’t you?’
‘I suppose I could.’
/> ‘I’d be grateful. I’ll find out for myself, of course, quite soon. It’s one of the things where if anything’s going to happen it’ll happen quick.’
‘How can you tell?’
‘It’s the kind of thing you always can. You should know that.’
I did not. Though I was twenty-six. It was the kind of remark she was fond of making. I wondered out of how wide an experience she was speaking, or whether she was repeating a remark made to her by another woman; a remark she had found effective.
‘It’s fun sometimes when you know from the start that it’s all going to take time; a gradual getting to know each other, lunches to start with and then dinners^ first parties with other guests, then just the two of you; yes, that is fun, wondering at the start how long the working-up will take, sometimes hurrying it, sometimes delaying it, playing it by mood. Oh yes, it is fun, that. But,’ she paused, a half smile flickering on her lips, ‘this kind of thing is more fun, much more fun. I suppose I ought to clear my decks.’
‘Are they very cluttered ?’
‘No, not especially. Still ...’ Again she paused. She was really talking to herself.
‘I’ve heard it said that one of the pleasantest things about the start of a new affair is the walking out on someone who has begun to bore you, but whom you’ve kept on with out of laziness, and it is fun, yes of course that is, but ... I don’t like hurting people, particularly somebody I’ve … When I’m happy myself, I don’t like someone else being wretched, particularly when it’s because of me they are wretched.’
She was talking, I was now sure, in large part to impress herself, One day, I thought, I’ll make use of this in a story, changing it so she won’t recognise herself.
I asked her if she would like a glass of port. She shook her head. ‘I like wine when I’m eating, not otherwise. I wish you had some Russian tea, but I know you haven’t. I’ll have to give you an electric kettle for your birthday.’
‘That’ll be a long time off. July the eighth.’
‘It’ll have to be Easter then. I can’t wait till July.’
She stretched her arms above her head. She sighed, a sigh that came from a deep well of happiness.
‘To think that yesterday morning I’d never even heard of him. There was I, eating my breakfast, wondering whether I’d go down or not. You remember how grey and cold it was. The train journey would cost me—I didn’t even know how much the ticket was—and two weeks of the month to run before my allowance comes. If anyone even reasonably reasonable had rung me up, I’d have called it off. What I’d have missed.’
‘He’s certainly good looking.’
‘Oh, but it isn’t only that. It isn’t even that. There’s something about him. I don’t know what it is. I seem so at peace with him, so understood by him. I don’t have to explain myself, and he doesn’t have to explain himself. Can you appreciate what a relief that is to a girl? No, of course you can’t. Because you’re not a girl. You don’t know what men are like when they are with girls, always talking about themselves, trying to impress us. He’s not like that, not at all: he doesn’t seem interested in himself.’
‘Perhaps he isn’t.’
‘Oh, but that’s silly. He must be; of course he is. Everybody is. We are all interested in ourselves. I am. You are. Wondering what we really are. He doesn’t seem to be. He accepts himself for what he is. Just as he accepts you for what you are. Oh, I do hope that he’s not mixed up with some wretched trollop. You’ll find out, won’t you, as soon as possible?’
‘I’ll do my best.’
Next day I wrote to Evelyn: but our letters crossed. On the Tuesday morning I received from him an enquiry as to Judy’s position in my life. Was she my mistress ? The word mistress was not in inverted commas. It was typical of Evelyn to use such an old-fashioned word. Raymond was anxious to know. Judy had ‘intrigued’ him. That word was put in inverted commas, so was the assurance that he did not want ‘to trespass on my preserves’. I was touched by his concern, but not surprised by it. I have often found Americans surprised by the Englishman’s refusal to damage a masculine friendship on a woman’s account. I sent Evelyn a note of reassurance and rang up Judy. ‘You can get your decks cleared,’ I said.
During the winter, when I played football regularly, I kept strict training for the last three days of the week, but on the Saturday night, in the vernacular of the hour I ‘beat it up’ with four or five members of the side. Our usual haunt was Dehem’s Oyster bar off Shaftesbury Avenue. Sometimes when the bar closed, two or three of us would go on to the 43.
The 43 was a club in Gerard Street, run by a lady whose two daughters were later to marry peers. It was half a speakeasy and half a brothel. It was at this time in its early days. It was patronised by the world of fashion. It had elegance. It was real. Gossip columnists found useful copy there. It figured in A Handful of Dust.
We arrived there rather early. It was one of the places that one went onto afterwards, but to my surprise Raymond Peronne was already there. A female was at his table: otherwise he was alone. He waved to us to join him. A bottle of club champagne was on the table. ‘What a pleasant surprise this is,’ he said. ‘Mabel, this is Mr Alec Waugh and his two friends . . .’ He raised the pitch of his voice interrogatively. I gave their names. ‘I hope you’ll help me finish off this bottle. It isn’t very good. Mabel has already switched to her own special poison.’
She was sipping at a hock glass that was filled with a pinkish liquid. It was priced at seven and six, and presumably contained grenadine and soda. Mabel was blonde and slim and undistinctive. You would be unlikely to recognise her at a second meeting unless she was wearing the same frock. On this occasion it was pale and blue, tight-bodiced, with a panier skirt. It was quite smart. She was not unattractive; it was hard to explain why you knew instantaneously that she was one of the hostesses and not a guest.
‘Shall we ask Mabel to bring over one or two of her friends ? She has some very nice ones,’ Raymond asked.
I looked enquiringly at my two footballers. They shook their heads. It was their first visit here. They had asked me to bring them. They were curious to see what it was like. But one glance was enough to tell them that ‘hostesses at the 43’ were not in their income bracket. Nor, for that matter, were they in mine. ‘Another time,’ I said.
‘Fine. We’ll have better talk without them, if you’ll forgive me, Mabel.’
‘Granted, I’m sure.’
‘Let’s have another bottle then, and another of your specials, Mabel.’
Mabel sipped it slowly, with apparent appreciation. ‘Could I have something to eat?’ she said. A sandwich was produced; a thin sliver of ham divided two thin slices of white bread whose corners were turned up. Mabel devoured it as though she were hungry: perhaps she was.
‘Any food for the rest of you?’ Raymond asked. We shook our heads. We had had an Irish stew at Dehem’s, we told him. ‘What about some cheese then?’
We agreed that we would like some cheese. The cheese came in small silver paper-wrapped triangles. ‘It’s the only thing here that’s fresh,’ he said. He behaved as a host would. Without actually asking questions, he learned that one of my footballers had been at Tonbridge, the other at Haileybury; that they had been too young for the war, that they decided not to go to a University. ‘Very wise,’ said Raymond. ‘Get started on the battle right away. You’ll have a three-year start of the rest of us.’ They were now qualifying as chartered accountants. They would be taking their’ final exams in August. The talk moved easily. Time ticked by. By now most of the tables were filled; on the dance floor couples were swaying but scarcely moving. The noise increased. After an hour my football companions took their leave. ‘We must be on our way.’
Raymond seemed genuinely sorry when they left. I rose with them. ‘I should be going too,’ I said.
He waved me back. ‘No, stay on another half hour, please.’
He was not mandatory, not insistent, but it was never easy to refu
se him.
‘There’s still half a bottle of this deplorable liquid left,’ he said. Mabel in her turn stood up. ‘Back in a jiffy.’
As soon as we were alone, Raymond said, ‘I’d rather you didn’t mention to Judy that you saw me here. She might not understand.’
Did that mean, I asked myself, that he had seen Judy since the Sunday? If he had, what was he doing here? It was clear that Mabel was expecting him to take her home. Had he quarrelled with Judy? If he was planning to take Mabel home, why was he lingering here? When had he got to be back at Oxford. Had he any right to be here at all in termtime?
Mabel rejoined us. Again he turned his attention to her. He had not neglected her while the others had been at the table. He had included her in the conversation, addressing parts of it to her. She had contributed very little. She answered questions, briefly, that was about all. But she had seemed perfectly happy, sitting there, listening; content, grateful that no demands were being made upon her, yet.
‘Let’s dance,’ he said. It was the first time they had. He held her close; she was a good dancer, smooth and rhythmic; so was he, not indulging in elaborate steps, but following the music’s beat. His dancing was a form of courtship. ‘And this is where I go,’ I thought. As soon as the music stopped and they came back to the table, I would make my excuses. It was after two, I had had a hard game of football and I was tired. Now was the time; the music seemed to be moving to a close. It loudened, tautened, another minute and then … But before that minute came, there was a sudden noise outside, the beating of something heavy on a door, a raising of voices on the stairs, then a loud proclamation: ‘Ladies and gentlemen, will you return please to your tables.’
