The Fatal Gift

by Alec Waugh

  ‘No, I’m not going out either.’

  The smile on her lips deepened. Her eyes were still half closed. It was a rather curious smile. I turned my head and realised that it was turned on Whistler. I could not see the expression of his face, but I had the feeling that in that instant a message passed between them, that it was a moment of recognition and awareness, of stumbling upon a secret. It sent a shock along my nerves.

  I remembered how strained and drawn she had looked two weeks ago. She was then fussing over the obligations that would devolve on her through this party. I had gathered, though I could not remember when I had heard it said, that she had scarcely known Whistler, if indeed she had known him at all, before Raymond had suggested that they should end the evening in his set. Presumably Whistler had been in on all the discussions, during the preliminary planning, as to who was coming to the party and who should be encouraged to stay on afterwards, and no doubt Raymond and Whistler had schemed out the scenario of that post-party talk. Whistler had already known—how could he have helped knowing—what was at the back of Raymond’s mind. It was for the benefit of those others who had not known, that Whistler had made it possible for Raymond to make his little speech.

  For these two weeks they had been constantly in each other’s company, scheming this and that, laying out the tactics of the campaign. Had all that time, unknown to either of them, a secret drama had been developing: between Eileen and Whistler, a drama that accounted for the deep look of fulfilment that I had seen in her face at the beginning of the evening? Under the surface they might have been unconsciously aware of it; they might only have recognised it now in the realisation that in a month’s time they would be alone in London. I supposed that it had to come, sooner or later. Whatever it was that had to come, I prayed that the fabric of Raymond’s and Eileen’s life might be maintained. And after all, why shouldn’t it? Nine times out often it was only because two people found it impossible to be alone in any other way that there were elopements and broken homes. These two were spared that, thank heaven, or rather thanks to Dominica.

  After the Dominican party, Raymond told me that he did not feel justified in joining the Odde Volumes. ‘I’d love to,’ he said, ‘but you see how it is. I have to be away so much. You need a more regular attendant.’

  I was disappointed, I had looked forward to the opportunities for meetings that the Odde Volumes would provide. I was myself expecting to be away a lot and my returns to England might not always coincide with his.

  It turned out as I had feared. Indeed in the next year I was to see more of Eileen than of him. We were both members of the Wine and Food Society, and often found ourselves attending the same wine-tastings and dinners.

  She kept me up to date with Raymond’s movements. Not that she had a great deal to tell. He was still looking for a house to buy, but did not seem in any particular hurry over it. ‘Every time he finds a house, there seems something wrong with it. “What’s the point of hurrying,” he says, “we’ve all the time there is,” and I suppose we have.’

  At the start she had spoken with irritation about his refusal to be hurried, but now she seemed to be resigned.

  ‘You are quite comfortable where you are, though, aren’t you ?’ I would ask. She would shrug. ‘There’s nothing wrong with it. It’s well enough.’

  ‘But I suppose you want a place that really is your own with your own things round you.’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘Not any longer?’

  ‘We live in an uncertain world. Perhaps it’s better to travel light.’

  At that moment the Spanish Civil War was shaking even the most conservative out of their laissez-faire philosophy. But was that really the reason why Eileen could shrug away Raymond’s procrastinations? Perhaps she did not want to commit herself too far with Raymond; perhaps it was her life with him rather than the European world that was uncertain. Raymond was leaving her alone for four or five months a year. That was a lot for anyone as young as she. Was anything going on below the surface?

  I saw her as often as I could. When the Wine and Food Society sponsored a Burgundian lunch, I asked her if she could come with me.

  ‘If only you’d rung me up ten minutes earlier,’ she said. ‘I’ve just promised to go with someone else.’

  That someone was Derrick Whistler. I was seated two tables away. She had her back to me, but I could watch the changing expression on his face. There was a bright light in it. He was more alive than he had been that evening at Albany. He looked younger too. I wonder, I thought, I wonder.

  In the following spring my brother Evelyn was married to Laura Herbert. It was the happiest of occasions. Everyone was delighted for Evelyn’s sake. His first marriage had broken in the autumn of 1929, and until that marriage could be annulled he had been outlawed in an emotional wilderness. Now, at last, he could begin a new life with someone young and attractive with whom he was obviously in love. The reception was at the house of one of Laura’s aunts in Regent’s Park. All his Oxford friends were there; it was nearly fifteen years since I had met them at that first party in his rooms at Hertford. Much had happened in that interval; but most of them had started to fulfil their promise, Robert Byron, Christopher Hollis, Douglas Woodroffe, Peter Quennell, Anthony Bushell, Anthony Powell, each in his own way had his feet firmly planted on the narrowing avenue of success. The only one who had achieved absolutely nothing was the one whose promise had seemed the brightest, and yet it was impossible to write off Raymond Peronne as a failure. He looked so handsome, so confident, so potential as he walked up the stairs to be greeted by Evelyn and his bride.

  By 1937 a morning coat had come to be worn so seldom that men had ceased to look natural in them. The coats of the older men were usually too tight and the coats of the younger ones had as often as not been hired from Moss Bros. But Raymond, in the cliché of the Cutter’s Journal, looked as though he had been poured into his fawn-grey waistcoat; the coat lay smoothly over his shoulders, curving away over his hips. The crease of his black and white check trousers broke, but only just, over his polished shoes; his thick brown and white silk tie clung into the angle of his stiff, starched collar, yet at the same time he gave the impression of having been dressed for comfort; you felt that he was ready for immediate and violent action; that he would have been as capable of shouldering a trunk in his formal clothes as he would have been in corduroy trousers and an open sports shirt. He looked, too, in exuberant good health; his skin clear, no sign of a double chin.

  I waited for him in the large room where the presents were on display. He seemed to be alone. ‘Isn’t Eileen here?’

  ‘No, alas, she couldn’t make it.’

  We looked at the presents. ‘The old boy hasn’t done badly, has he?’ he remarked. He looked at me thoughtfully. ‘You’ve been away, haven’t you?’ he said.

  ‘In New York. I went from there to Cuba, then I came back by the southern route and had a few days in Villefranche.’

  ‘Villefranche. I haven’t been there since.’

  There was no need for me to ask ‘since what?’

  ‘How is it?’ he asked.

  ‘The way it always was.’

  ‘Then it’s about the one thing that is.’

  He said it cryptically, as though there were a meaning behind his words. Why wasn’t Eileen here?

  Three weeks later I went down to Charminster for a cricket match. J. C. Squire had arranged a fixture there for his side of Invalids. I rang up a few days before to ask if Raymond would be there. Eileen answered me. ‘No, he won’t be there, but I shall. There’s a dance in the neighbourhood. Iris is really too young for it, but I’m making an exception in this case.’

  ‘Because of Michael?’

  ‘Yes, in part.’

  ‘Are they serious about each other?’

  ‘As serious as anyone can be at that age.’

  ‘Don’t you think one can fall in love at that age, just as seriously as later?’

  ‘One think
s one does.’

  ‘You were married at eighteen yourself.’

  ‘That was in wartime.’

  ‘Maybe we’re not so far away from wartime now.’

  ‘Do you believe that?’

  ‘Can you really believe that the world would be so insane? Surely we’ve learnt our lesson.’

  In a few more months it was very clear that the world had not, and it was with a last-time feeling that in the autumn of 1938 I booked myself on a tour to the West Indies. If I don’t go now, I thought, I never may.

  I chiefly wanted to see the Windward islands, St Lucia, St Vincent and Grenada. The sailings fitted awkwardly and it was clear that if I wanted to visit Dominica, I should have to spend three weeks there, which was more than I could manage. I did find out, however, that the ship I aimed to catch from St Lucia would arrive at Dominica late on Christmas Eve and would stay there overnight. I sent Raymond a warning signal, ‘Why don’t you dine with me on board,’ I wrote. ‘There’ll probably be better food there than we could get in Roseau. Perhaps you could bring one of those mountain chickens with you. I am sure that we could persuade the chef to warm it up for us.’

  But Raymond had other ideas. We anchored in the open roadstead shortly before sundown and there he was, coming out to meet me in a row-boat.

  ‘Get ready as quickly as you can,’ he shouted up at me. ‘We’re going straight out to Overdale.’

  ‘You don’t want to dine on board?’

  ‘Good Heavens no, nor do you.’

  ‘What shall I wear?’

  ‘Whatever you like. There’ll only be ourselves. It can be chilly out there, though, don’t forget.’

  I had not forgotten that. I had scarcely used my pullover during the trip, but I should tonight.

  ‘We’ve a lot to talk about,’ he said.

  My instinctive need for copy made me wish that we could look in for a moment at the club, though even as I thought it I realised that the club would almost certainly be empty. Boat day was one of the big occasions in the island’s life. Residents gave dinner parties on board. And he was right, we had a lot to talk about.

  ‘We haven’t met,’ I said, ‘since Evelyn’s wedding.’

  ‘Then you’ll have more news for me than I shall have for you. Tell me about that son of mine.’

  ‘My godson, you know.’

  ‘Of course, I’d not forgotten. Is the old man making him another cricketer ?’

  ‘I am, more than he.’

  In my nursery days I had played endless matches with myself, throwing a tennis ball at the wall above the door, playing it on the rebound. The chairs were arranged as fielders; if the ball landed on one without bouncing, I was caught; a ball that landed on my brother’s cot, even if it bounced first, was six and out. I had taught this game to Timothy Alexander. Raymond asked me about Michael.

  ‘What about he and Iris?’

  ‘They’re what the Americans call going steady.’

  ‘But I suppose someone will intervene and smash it up.’

  For a moment we drove in silence.

  ‘I suppose that you haven’t had any mail from England for quite a while,’ he said.

  ‘I’m expecting to find a big batch waiting me in Antigua. Most of the ships stop there. If I’d had letters posted to Grenada or St Lucia, I might have missed them.’

  ‘So I don’t suppose you’ve seen any newspapers ?’

  ‘You know what one gets in an island newspaper. Local gossip and a few main cables. One can keep up with the cricket scores, that’s all.’

  ‘So it’s no good asking you if the Peronne scandal hit the headlines.’

  ‘What am I to take that to mean?’

  ‘That a month ago Eileen was granted a decree nisi of divorce in respect of my neglect and flagrant infidelity.’

  He said it on a flippant note.

  ‘Is this a cause for condolence or congratulations?’

  ‘Whichever way you choose to rate it.’

  ‘Was there a co-respondent?’

  ‘A nameless lady accompanied me to Brighton.’

  I thought of Nöel Coward’s Private Lives. ‘Had she a revolting comb?’ I asked.

  ‘As a matter of fact, she was rather nice. Does it all come as a surprise to you?’

  ‘Yes and no.’

  ‘Did you know about Whistler?’

  ‘I guessed. I didn’t know how serious it was.’

  ‘What made you guess? Was there any gossip?’

  ‘None that reached me. I saw them together once or twice. There was a kind of…’

  ‘I know. There’s that look in your eyes again.’

  ‘When was all this arranged ?’

  The last time I was over.’

  ‘When was that?’

  ‘In January.’

  I had been in Morocco then.

  ‘I rang you a couple of times,’ he said. ‘But I got no answer.’

  ‘It was Eileen, then, who wanted it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Was it a surprise?’

  ‘In a way, yes. We’d been married for five years—six and a half years we’d been together. I thought we’d worked out a compromise. We never quarrelled. I found her attractive still—in what is called that way. The separations helped. Sailors’ wives may grumble, but the spark stays alight and besides, it’s very easy for them to indulge a fredaine if they want.’

  ‘You were quite happy with things the way they were?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’

  ‘But Eileen wasn’t.’

  ‘Whistler wasn’t.’

  ‘Why? I’d have thought that he was getting things both ways.’

  ‘I’d have thought so too. Do you know Whistler well?’

  ‘I’ve not more than met him.’

  ‘How did he strike you?’

  ‘He didn’t make any particular impression. He seemed cut to pattern.’

  ‘That’s a mistake it’s very easy to make where that type of Englishman, the public school type, is concerned. We’re all different underneath that pattern. They call women the mysterious sex; I think men are much more mysterious, unaccountable, unpredictable. It was Whistler who issued an ultimatum. Things could not go on the way they were. She either had to marry him or the whole thing was off. That flattered Eileen. He loved her so much that he couldn’t do with only a part of her. He couldn’t share her with anyone. But I don’t believe that that was the real reason. In a curious way, his vanity was hurt.’

  ‘I’d have thought it was your vanity that was more likely to be hurt.’

  ‘You would, wouldn’t you? Cuckold isn’t a pretty word. But a wise husband, like a wise wife, ought to be able to shut his eyes. Myself, I shouldn’t be worried unless a situation was created that made me ridiculous, by which I was humiliated in public. And Eileen would never allow anything like that to happen. But masculine vanity is a peculiar thing. So is English snobbery. You may think this ridiculous, but I believe that Whistler didn’t like the idea of Eileen being the Honourable Mrs Raymond Peronne. He was jealous of my courtesy tide. It sounds ridiculous. It is ridiculous, but I believe that’s how his mind worked. He wanted her to give her tide up for him.’

  ‘But she didn’t get much kick out of being the Honourable ?’

  ‘A very slight one. Nobody minds a handle to their name, even if it’s only on an envelope. But she’d never consider marrying for a tide’s sake; money, well that’s another thing.’

  ‘How’s Whistler fixed that way?’

  ‘Well enough, but Eileen’s plenty of her own. Financially it’s a good match for him.’

  At that point I did detect a note of asperity in Raymond’s voice. Clearly he loathed the man. I was glad of that. It humanised him.

  ‘By the way,’ he added, ‘don’t be alarmed by a dusky female that you’ll find about the place. She won’t sit with us at the table. She prefers eating off the floor. She won’t interfere with us. She never talks. I don’t think she bothers to listen. Her English isn’t v
ery good. She’s a Carib. I talk to her in patois.’

  She was short and stocky. Her hair was straight and black. She cut it en brosse. She was pale skinned, with a straight nose, rather thick lips, very white and even teeth. Her eyes were dark and lustrous. She had a sulky, but not unfriendly look. Most of the evening she lay flat on her stomach on a divan, her arms stretched forwards above her head and crossed at the wrists. Now and again she would turn her head and look at us, but for the most part, with her chin supported on a cushion, she lay motionless, listening to a gramophone.

  ‘She’s very restful,’ Raymond said. ‘In the old days the Caribs had two languages, one for the men, one for the women. Some of the men learnt the women’s language, but by no means all of them; as a result the women only chatter when they are together. Another restful thing about them is they haven’t the inferiority complex that most West Indians get through having once been slaves. They’ve always been independent. They were terrific warriors. They probably showed you in Grenada the rock where three hundred of them jumped into the sea rather than surrender.’

  When his manservant announced that dinner was served, she did not follow us into the dining room. On our return ninety minutes later, she was still lying on the divan. He said something to her in the patois that sounds like French, but is quite unintelligible to anyone who has not learnt it; she smiled when she answered him. T told her that you hoped she had a good dinner. She replied that she had been well fed: she hoped that you appreciated what her cook had prepared for you. She supervised the cooking herself. She considers it a great honour to the house that you should eat here.’

  ‘Did she really say that?’

  ‘That’s what it amounted to.’

  She was seventeen years old, he told me. He had met her when he was conducting a couple of house guests on a tour of the Carib reservation. He had noticed her at the river, busy beside a pile of washing. He had passed the time of day with her; he had liked the look of her and had lingered, gossiping. That evening her mother had called on him with a practical and straightforward proposition. ‘Some things are very simple in a place like this.’

  I asked him what his plans were for the immediate future.