by Alec Waugh
‘That’s why I’m going to New York.’
‘To write about New York?’
‘No. To get an idea of what the people are like who’ll be reading what I write about post-war London; one needs to be conscious of one’s audience.’
We talked for a moment about the perpetual, persistent problem of the writer, the need to visualise the people with whom he is trying to communicate. I felt very much in tune with her. Fifteen years earlier I had hoped that a romance might grow between us. On both sides there had been a flicker. It had not developed. No reference had ever been made to it, but we were both conscious of its existence. It enriched now our relationship. There are few pleasanter things in middle life than this sense of oneness with those with whom one nearly fell in love.
But though we talked about my problems, no mention had been made of Raymond’s; he was in precisely the same position that I was, a man of over forty returning to civilian life after six years in the army, four of them abroad. No one was worrying about him. No one ever had worried about him. Everyone had taken for granted his eventual success ‘in whatever walk of life it might please God to call him’. Why had they taken that for granted in his case, and in no one else’s ? Because of his looks, because of his air, I will not say of promise, but of certainty. His father had not been concerned when he was sent down from Oxford. Was it because he took himself for granted too, that he made no demands on anyone? He had remarked, himself, that while he had helped others to get jobs during the war, he had himself lingered on in the cul de sac of Censorship, finishing up with a routine majority. Was that unconcern with the furtherance of his aims and interests, the reason for his being at the age of forty in an equivalent position emotionally ? No woman’s life was closely involved with his. Was that because he had made no demands on any woman; he had never made any woman feel he needed her—for the simple reason that he never had ? Perhaps he had never really given himself in love, and was not that in the last analysis what a woman really needed—to feel that a man belonged to her? I felt wistful on his account as the train hurried me back to London.
In the spring of 1941, when I was a staff captain in the Ministry of Mines, I had taken a very small one-room apartment in a block of flats called The White House near Regent’s Park. It was on the top floor and when the bombing was on, top floor flats were not in active demand, so I got it for a ridiculously small rent. I had kept it on while I was in the Middle East, and I had found it unlet on my return. I proposed to keep it on. It was very convenient and so cheap that I could afford to leave it unlet when I was abroad. One of its great advantages was that it had a central telephone service that took messages. On my return from Charminster, I found a message that Susan Irving had called and was desperately anxious to get in touch with me.
I rang her back right away.
‘Oh, it’s you. At last. I’ve been hunting for you everywhere. You’re as slippery and elusive as a piece of soap. I heard you were back. I wanted to see you but I thought “what the hell”. I was due for the Far East at any moment, with Colombo as my base. But now that’s off. I’m back at the London desk. Just where I was three years ago. I must see you as soon as possible.’
‘Where are you speaking from?’ I asked. She had given me a Flaxman number. ‘I’ve a flat in Swan Court.’ That was just off the King’s Road, Chelsea. ‘If you caught a 30 bus, at the top of your street, you could be here in half an hour.’
‘I’ll do just that.’
Within quarter of an hour, there was a ring at my front door.
‘I was in luck,’ she said, ‘I found a taxi.’
It was two years since I had seen her. She was now reaching the peak of her good looks. She had thinned a little; it was hard to look smart in London at that time, but she managed to. It was a cool evening and she was wearing a long, tight-fitting coat. It had an un-English look. An American offering maybe, from a PX store. At that time a London girl’s looks depended on whether she had a Pole or an American as her beau.
Alcohol was in very short supply right then, but I had allowed my ration and credit to accumulate at my wine merchants.
‘I’ve got whisky,’ I told her. ‘But I’ve also, if you’d prefer it, I would myself, a half bottle of champagne on ice.’
She laughed. ‘I could have guessed you would,’ she said.
‘How so?’
‘There was a girl you rather liked who told me that you always had exacdy the right drink at the right temperature.’
‘Who was that?’
‘I’ll let you guess. There can’t have been so many that you can’t guess. It became a kind of game with her. She would especially go back to your flat, when you had not expected her, even when she really wasn’t in the mood, just to see if she could catch you off your guard. She kept the thing going longer than she really wanted, simply to catch you unprepared. And she never did.’
‘I know who you mean.’
‘I should hope you would.’
She sipped at her glass, appreciatively. ‘She was right, dead right.’ She looked at me quizzically, as though she were asking herself a question. Then she laughed.
‘But it’s Raymond that I’m here to talk about. When is he due back?’
‘Almost any day. He was booked two sailings after me. I got back six weeks ago.’
‘Did you see him on your way through Egypt ?’
‘We sailed from Alexandria.’
‘Then when did you see him last?’
‘Over two years ago.’
‘Not since his nephew turned out to be a niece?’
‘No.’
‘Have you corresponded?’
‘Only notes; when anything came my way or came his that was likely to amuse the other.’
‘You’ve no idea how he’s feeling about things?’
‘About what things?’
‘Oh, you know. The title, what he’s going to do about it, and me, that’s the main thing, what is he planning about me?’
‘He’s never discussed that kind of thing with me.’
‘I don’t like being classified as that kind of thing.’
‘What else am I to call it ?’
‘Oh, you know,’ she smiled. ‘You know perfectly well what I want to ask you.’
I helped her out. ‘Whatever there’s been, he’s been discreet about it. There’s been no gossip. And if there had been, I think I would have heard.’
‘That’s something to be thankful for. If there was anything in Cairo, he’s left it there behind him. But all the same, coming back to England . . . mayn’t there have been something here, something that would be waiting for him? Would you say that was likely?’
‘I wouldn’t know. He hadn’t been in England for a while; when he was, he was a married man, have you forgotten?’
‘You sure there was no one here?’
‘Not that I heard of. There may have been, during the phoney war. He was at a loose end for several weeks, but the moment he got called up he was posted out of London.’
‘What about Dominica?’
‘Nothing that can be any competition.’
‘What was she like?’
‘She was very silent.’
‘I wonder if I talk too much.’
We laughed at that. She was someone with whom it was difficult to be serious for long.
‘It’s about time,’ I said, ‘that I started asking questions,’
‘Fire ahead.’
‘What do you really want? Would you like him to come back, with a heart at your disposal, or would it be a relief if he said “We had a fine time, didn’t we? Weren’t we lucky that fate intervened without our getting tired of one another ? Now we can have wonderful memories of each other.” ’
‘That’s just what I’m asking myself,’ she said.
‘But you yourself,’ I asked, ‘is your heart at his disposal ?’
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘You know very well what I mean by that.’
‘I’d have been astonished. I’d have been more than astonished, I would have been shocked. Is there anyone now in London, about whom you’re wondering “shall I break it off or not”?’
She shook her head. ‘The real one’s gone already; he was an American. It would have meant breaking up my life here, my career, my friends; it was too much, I wanted to . . . but no, I couldn’t. At my age, and at an exciting point in my career. I’d never forgive myself if I didn’t give myself the chance. And what’s more, I couldn’t forgive him if because of him I stood up that chance … It wouldn’t be fair to him. It broke my heart but he had to go.’
‘How long ago was this ?’
‘Six weeks; it seems six years. Something that happened in another life.’
‘And you’re ready now to pick up your old life, as it was before.’
‘I had no real life before the war. I have to start in fresh.’
‘With Raymond, if . . .’ I hesitated. I did not want to say ‘with Raymond if he’s disengaged’; I said instead, ‘if you feel you can put back the clock with Raymond.’
‘It’s a long way to put it back. I was such a kid in those days.’
I smiled at that. ‘You didn’t sound a kid from the way you talked at the Alwiyah.’
‘I guess I didn’t. I was being knowing, wasn’t I ? putting on an act. I wasn’t letting Raymond or any friend of Raymond know how inexperienced I really was.’
‘And you’re afraid now that two years later Raymond will look less glamorous.’
‘He’ll always look glamorous; no, it isn’t that. It would be wonderful if it could be as wonderful in London as it was in Cairo, but … oh, I don’t know, I don’t want those memories to be spoilt. You can understand that, can’t you ?’
‘I can understand that.’
‘It’s . . . oh, well, when are you leaving for New York ?’ ‘In about ten days.’
‘Then he probably won’t have arrived here before you leave . . . give me your address. I’ll tell you how it works out.’
In mid-Atlantic I prayed that it would turn out well. Two weeks later there was a cable at the Algonquin signed Susan. ‘Wonderful wonderful wonderful.’
And now what next, I wondered.
I got back to London on the last Tuesday in January. I crossed in the Queen Elizabeth. She was still operating as a troop-ship and no alcohol was served. Only the big sitting room was open. The cabins had been converted into dormitories; at all hours of the day announcements were being made to the military personnel on the telecommunication system. It was a dismal journey. We docked at Southampton at three in the afternoon. It was a grey, cold day. On the quay a small army band was playing us a welcome. Somehow this seemed pathetic; a pretence that we were returning to a joyful homeland.
I was spending my first night in my mother’s flat in Highgate; several letters were awaiting me. Among them was one from Eileen. It was duplicated, with my name, written at the head in ink.
‘Dear Alec,’ it ran, ‘Derrick is due back the twenty-eighth. His train is expected at Waterloo in the afternoon. You could get the exact time from the P & O office. I thought it would cheer him up if as many of his old friends as possible could be there to welcome him; we might all come back afterwards to my suite at Athenaeum Court for drinks. I’ll bring up something pre-war from Charminster.’
From the smudged nature of the type, I assumed that a good many copies had been sent out. At the foot of mine was written ‘Do, do come.’ I looked at the date on the envelope. The seventeenth. It had showed great reliance on the efficiency of the Peninsular and Oriental Steamship Company to assume that a ship’s arrival could be guaranteed ten days ahead. Next morning I rang up the P & O. Yes, I was informed the Ralcunda would dock at noon; the boat train was due at Waterloo at 3.15. I arrived at the station shordy before three. The train was due at platform 3. There was a barrier across the entrance. Less than twenty people were waiting. I looked for a familiar face; did not see one, then recognised Eileen. She was surprised to see me.
‘So you’ve come after all,’ she said.
‘What do you mean, after all?’
‘You didn’t get my message?’
‘What message?’
‘That I had changed my mind; got cold feet at the last moment. I rang up everyone. You included.’
‘That must be the confused message that my mother’s woman didn’t understand.’
‘The message wasn’t confused at all. Your mother’s woman, as you call her, seemed rather dense.’
‘She is. I’ll be on my way.’
‘No, now that you’re here. Do stay. I may need support. It’s good to see you, anyhow. Was New York fun?’
It was, I told her, but I did not enlarge on that. Anti-Americanism was on the increase. The English had had six dreary years. The war was over; but the restrictions, if anything, were stricter. The English did not want to be reminded that their former allies were enjoying a bonanza. Better to change the subject quickly. Besides, I wanted to hear about Charminster. ‘How’s my godson?’
‘He’s fine. They say that he ought to get a scholarship.’
‘How did he find his father?’
‘Fine. Raymond came down for Christmas.’
‘How did you find him?’
‘Just the same. He doesn’t alter.’
‘Do you know what his plans are?’
‘You are as likely to know that as I am.’
‘I only got in last night.’
‘So you did; it was dear of you to come here. But you will be seeing him, of course. He’ll probably tell you more about his plans than he would me. It’s a little awkward, between us. I can’t go on living at Charminster now that Derrick’s back, yet Charminster is going to be Timothy Alexander’s home. He thinks of it as his home.’
‘Where’s Raymond at the moment?’
‘In a furnished flat in Queen Anne’s mansions. Rented it furnished from a friend.’
‘That doesn’t sound a very permanent arrangement.’
‘It doesn’t.’
‘I wonder if he’ll go back to Dominica? That’s what I’m wondering.’
‘His heart’s there, isn’t it?’
‘It ruined our marriage.’
I wondered how Susan would cope with Dominica. If she had the chance of having to cope with it. She was a career woman. She had put her career before her American.
‘I didn’t manage to see Iris,’ I told Eileen. ‘But I talked to her on the telephone. She sounded happy.’
‘She’ll be all right.’
‘And what about her daughter ?’
‘She’ll probably let that slip her memory. Something that happened to someone else. Margaret’s happy with her.’
‘And the old man’s happy to have her there?’
‘He’s devoted to Margaret. She’s been a daughter to him, and after all she isn’t all that too old for the child. She isn’t fifty yet. They’ll be quite good companions for each other.’
‘Someone has to pick up the bad hand in every deal.’
‘Has it been all that bad a deal for Margaret? From what Raymond told me and from what I’ve guessed, she had a lively time in the hectic twenties.’
‘What different lives the two of you have led. And in January 1919, you were in identical positions.’
‘I know. I know. Look . . . here’s the train.’
The barrier was moved back. There were two ticket collectors on it. But the waiting group was not let through. Eileen and I stood back. The train was crowded. It was a miscellaneous collection, some of them in uniform, most of them shabby, and all suntanned. They had come back through Suez. There was first a sprinkling of those who had jumped out of their carriages before the train had stopped. Then there came a thick jostling crowd: ‘Line up there, please; one at a time,’ the ticket collectors were exhorting t
hem. ‘No hurry; no pushing please, one at a time, one at a time.’
The press was over now. It was once again a thinning stream of stragglers. Eileen raised herself upon her toes, looking to the right and to the left. ‘He must be here. He can’t have missed it. I had a telegram from Suez. He couldn’t have got off the ship. I’d have been telegraphed if anything was wrong . . . There’s hardly anybody left; it can’t oh, no, it surely can’t, it can’t . . .’
I could see where she was looking: a tallish man was walking very slowly, supported by a much shorter man. He was very thin, and very pale; his clothes, which were shabby, hung loosely from his shoulders. His feet dragged as he walked; as he drew closer to the barrier, he raised his head. His face was drained of animation. He looked straight at us. ‘It can’t be, it can’t,’ she said. A flicker of recognition crossed his face. He raised his arm, to a level with his shoulder; his fingers flickered, in a half salute; a phrase out of Jurgen crossed my memory, ‘like a face drowned in muddy water’—that was how he looked. ‘What have they done to him?’ she said. Then with a little cry, with her arms spread wide, she stepped towards the barrier, to meet with a smile of welcome, whatever the years might hold for her.
That night I wrote to Timothy Alexander.
‘I am afraid I have bad news for you. This afternoon I went with your mother to meet your stepfather. It was a great shock to us both. He is very thin and very feeble. He is almost unrecognisable. I don’t know whether he is seriously ill; all the ex-prisoners return in sorry shape; they have been starved for months. It may be that there is nothing basically wrong with him. I pray that there isn’t. But he will need very careful treatment for quite a while. I thought you needed to be warned. It is bound to be a very difficult time for your mother, and she will be very largely dependent on your help and sympathy. It is worse for her than anyone. Now to more cheerful matters. I am going up to Lord’s tomorrow and I will ensure that your name is down for the Easter classes. You’ll find that it’ll make all the difference when you’re back at school. You’ll start the term with your eye in . . . good luck in every way . . .’
