Unclouded Summer

by Alec Waugh

  She was flushed with the awkward overeagerness of the very young. He could understand now why she had looked at him in that confederate way at lunch. She was a rebel against the traditions of her home. Her painting was an expression of her rebellion, was the key with which she hoped to win to freedom. Would the key fit the lock, however?

  He looked at her flushed face. It had bravery, a lonely kind of bravery. The last thing for which she asked was sympathy, but there was something strangely pathetic, strangely moving about her outburst.

  He looked back at the pictures. What was there he could say to her about them? Who could tell if the promise in them would ripen into talent? It was a question of so many things, more than anything, of determination. Was not such little mark as he himself had made, the outcome of his resolve to justify his choice of painting as a career? In a country where a man was judged by his work, where a man who did not work did not amount to anything, his own choice of paint-ing as a career, instead of the law or business or education, had been an act of rebellion that had to be justified by its success. Would Marion ever feel like that? Would she ever find herself in the position of standing or falling by her painting? He doubted it; he doubted it very much. If she were poor, if she were obscure she might in the struggle for self-establishment convert her promise into talent. But she was not poor. She was not obscure. She possessed already, as her father’s daughter, without a struggle so many of the attributes to a full way of living which for others existed as the prizes hard-won-to after years of struggle. The eye of the needle. It was hard, it was rare for the children of rich and prominent parents to succeed in the arts: they became dilettantes, touchy and vain and precious; a nuisance to themselves and others.

  He looked at the pictures, then back at Marion. It would be easy enough to say something complimentary that would make her happy for the moment. Was it kind to her, though, was it fair in the long run to encourage her on a course which would almost certainly end unsatisfactorily; particularly when there were so many other activities in which her father’s position and prestige would be an assistance rather than a hindrance?

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “But I just can’t tell. I can’t say more than that there’s promise there. But I do think you should realize that the betting against your succeeding as a professional painter is a thousand to one against. I think you should have a second string.”

  She flushed as he said that. He felt a brute for saying it. But he would have felt a cad if he had not. He would have been buying her friendship upon false pretenses.

  From the passage came the sound of voices.

  “That’s Judy back,” she said.

  The voices came towards the drawing room. Francis was facing the door. The high central candelabra had been turned on so that they could see the pictures better. Under its heavy glare, he could see Judy stare at the sight of himself and Marion; her mouth hardened in the way that it had that afternoon, in a way that it had never done in the South of France.

  “I’m glad to see you’ve got to work so soon,” she said.

  She came across to them, glanced cursorily at the pictures.

  “They look good, we must ask Henry what he thinks,” she said.

  Then she blinked. “This light’s a bit too much for me. I’ll see you later.”

  As the door closed, Marion raised her eyebrows.

  “She didn’t like that.”

  “Didn’t like what?”

  “Your showing your pictures to me before she’s seen them.”

  “Oh, surely…”

  Marion laughed. “Judy likes to be the center of things round here.”

  “Well, in her own home, naturally.”

  “Exactly, as you say, in her own home, naturally.” There was a wry expression on Marion’s face as she said that; then her expression changed, becoming once again direct and friendly. “I’m so glad you said what you did about my painting. It can’t have been easy for you. I know that I can trust you now.”

  Parker was setting out his evening clothes when he came upstairs.

  “How does my dinner jacket strike you?” he inquired.

  It was double-breasted, of a type that had recently become fashionable in New York. He wore it with a semi-stiff shirt with attached collar.

  Parker hesitated. “Well sir, if I may say so, sir, it’s the kind of thing that the Prince of Wales would wear.”

  “Isn’t that the highest compliment that you could pay it?”

  “Well, sir, in certain places, sir.”

  “And this isn’t one of them you mean?”

  “I think you’ll understand what I mean sir, when you see what the other gentlemen are wearing.”

  He did all right, though his host was wearing a velvet smoking coat, and the silk on the lapels of Eckersley’s dinner jacket was shiny with long use, there was a gloss and freshness about the stiff-starched shirt fronts and the high-winged collars, an elegance about the diamond and pearl studs and links that matched the silk and sequins, the lace and velvet and georgette that the women wore. There was a parade atmosphere about it all with which his own soft collar and thin-ended tie did not accord. He did not feel embarrassed however on that account. He was here under false pretenses. He was glad, rather than otherwise, that the informality of his dress should set him apart from the remainder. He felt belligerent and aggressive. He felt different, he was glad he looked different. I’m not someone to be pushed around, he thought.

  They sat down ten for dinner. Afterwards they cut for bridge. Sir Henry excused himself on the ground of work. Marion was engrossed in the new Edgar Wallace.

  Judy was at another table. The last rubber dawdled on. It was after midnight before the guests could leave. When they asked Francis how long he was planning to stay in England, Judy answered for him. “We’re going to keep him here a long, long time.”

  They had walked out into the hall to say goodbye. After the warmth of the drawing room, its unheated air was cold. Eckersley shivered, as the front door closed. “One last quick nightcap to warm me up. Will you join me, Oliver?”

  Francis shook his head. It was late and he was tired.

  “No, thanks very much. I’ve had a long day. I’m for bed right now.”

  “Me, too,” said Judy.

  In silence they walked together up the staircase. At its head, they paused, looking uncertainly at one another.

  “I’ll just come and see that you’ve got everything,” she said.

  He opened his door for her. A bedside lamp had been switched on; the coals had burned low in the rounded cauldron of the fireplace, lighting the threads of silver in the damask curtains, throwing a deep rich glow onto the high four-poster, onto the elaborate plaster ceiling, onto the stiff-starched linen of the sheets and pillow cases, onto the bowl of primroses on the dressing table. The room was warm, welcomingly warm, after the cold of the hall and passage. Everything here suggested peace and harmony. If only he could close this door behind them. If only they could be alone together in this kindly room. How quickly that watchful defensive expression of distrust would leave her eyes. How easily they could win back to their old fond intimacy.

  She took a slow inventory-like look about the room. “Yes, I think you have everything,” she said.

  Beside his bed, next to the carafe of water, was a silver biscuit box. She lifted the lid. “Yes, there are some biscuits there.”

  She turned towards the door. For six months he had been dreaming of this moment; for six months in letters and cables, they had been planning for this moment. The moment had come and here they were, estranged and awkward.

  “Sleep well,” she said, and held out her hand.

  He did not take it. He could not say good night to her like this.

  “Listen,” he said, “we’ve got to talk.”

  “Not now.”

  “But I don’t understand, if you got my letter why you didn’t answer it?”

  “Your being here is my answer.”

  “That�
�s not an answer. It’s an ignoring of everything that that letter said, everything I asked you to decide.”

  “How can one decide things like that at a moment’s notice?”

  “But once my having been here, once my having stayed here as a guest…”

  She would not let him finish.

  “We can’t go into all that now. Tomorrow or some other time, we’ll have a long talk about it all. Not now … I must go now. Good night.”

  She was resolved not to talk. But he was equally resolved to make her talk. He was not going to let her get away with this. She had to be made to see his point of view.

  “Listen,” he said. “I write you a letter. I explain exactly what I feel. I tell you that there are two alternatives; I tell you that it is for you to choose, one or the other. You take no notice of my letter. You do not answer it. You won’t discuss it. I told you that I could not come down to Charlton. You ignore everything I wrote. You trap me down here.”

  “Trap’s not a pretty word.”

  “It’s the correct one, isn’t it? What other word could you find for it? You sent that car for me, you …”

  “I sent that car for you because I didn’t agree with your alternatives. I sent that car because I wanted to see you, because I believed that I could make you happy here. I am sorry if I was wrong in thinking that. I am now going to my bed. Good night.”

  The door closed behind her. The intimate cosiness of the room accentuated his sense of loss. He switched on the top center light. That was better. Its harsh glare depoetized the room, made it in keeping with his mood. Twenty-four hours earlier in the ship, he had pictured himself this night in London at the Savoy, either embarking with Judy on the supreme adventure of his life or else alone, trying to adjust himself to the vacuum, the desert that life was to be without her. Yet here he was now at Charlton, in the one place where he had vowed he would never be, a guest in Sir Henry’s house; not only in an impossible situation, but at outs with Judy. The one thing he had never thought to be. He felt trapped and tricked and angry.

  Chapter Ten

  He woke up to the tinkle of crockery, followed by the rattle of curtain rings. A pot of tea was beside his bed, and a plate with three thin slices of bread and butter. Parker was standing in silhouette against the window. Francis looked at his watch. It was eight o’clock.

  “What kind of day is it?” he asked.

  “It’s not actually raining, sir. That’s about all that you can say for it.”

  He leaned sideways to the tea tray. He shivered as his arm came from beneath the bedclothes. It was cold all right.

  “Chuck me across my dressing gown, there’s a good chap,” he said.

  It was a thin silk gown, that was amply adequate for the centrally heated rooms of home, but he could have done here with camel’s hair. Cowered back, under the blankets, he watched Parker arrange his clothes, take out his studs and links, tuck in the toes of his socks. It was the first time he had been valeted.

  “How many others do you do this for?” he asked.

  “Only yourself, sir, at the moment.”

  “What about Mr. Eckersley?”

  “He’s brought his own man with him.”

  So one arrived with a retinue, like King Lear.

  “Which suit will you be wearing, sir?” asked Parker.

  “Which would you recommend?”

  There was not indeed a great variety. Francis had a small wardrobe and he traveled light. He had a dark lounge suit, there was a gray flannel suit, there were his golf clothes and his tweeds.

  “It’s going to be a bit cold for flannels, isn’t it?”

  “I’m afraid it is, sir.”

  “There’s not much alternative to the tweeds in fact.”

  “I suppose there isn’t, sir.”

  There was a doubtful quality to Parker’s voice.

  “You’re not quite happy about those tweeds.”

  “I wouldn’t say that, sir, they’re very sound material.”

  “They look a bit new though, don’t they?”

  “Well sir, you do know what they say about tweeds and about brown leather: they’re better old.”

  “But there’s nothing I can do about it, except get them old.”

  “No, sir, unless …”

  “Yes, Parker, yes.”

  “Well, sir, if I might suggest while they are so new, if you didn’t wear the trousers and the coat together. If you wore gray flannel trousers with the coat.”

  “Then what about the trousers, they’re going to look new when the coat’s old?”

  “Perhaps, sir, you could find other occasions to wear the trousers: when you were playing golf for instance. Those trousers would go very well with that leather jerkin.”

  Francis smiled. It was very clear that Parker was not happy about those plus twos. “O.K.,” he said, “the tweed coat and gray flannel trousers.”

  “And what time would you like your shaving water, sir?”

  “What time is breakfast?”

  “Any time after nine.”

  “At half-past eight then.”

  “And your bath ten minutes later. By the way, sir, what time would you like your bath tonight?”

  “My dear Parker, how on earth can I tell that at this hour?”

  “Perhaps, sir, you could give me a rough idea. There’ll be a large house party. You’ll be sharing a bathroom with two other gentlemen.”

  “Sharing a bathroom?”

  “Why, of course, sir, naturally.”

  “That’s usual you mean – to share a bathroom?”

  “Well, sir, you’d hardly expect each guest to have one to himself.”

  “No, I suppose you wouldn’t.”

  Valets and freezing bedrooms, butlers and sharing bathrooms. He supposed that he’d get the hang of it all some day.

  “Is there anything else, sir, you’ll be requiring?”

  “No, thank you. I don’t think so. Oh yes, there is.”

  The sight of his hip flask on the dressing table had given him an idea. “I’d like some whiskey.”

  “Certainly, sir. I’ll see Mr. Blore about it: you’d like a whiskey and soda with your tea each morning?”

  Francis burst out laughing. No greater tribute could, he felt, have been paid to the English feudal system than the immobility of Parker’s features. Parker had barely paused before he replied.

  “Heavens no, that isn’t what I meant. I just had a feeling that I might at odd moments of the day feel the need of a strong shot, that I’d like to feel there was a full flask up here. I don’t say that I shall need it but I’d like to know that it was here.”

  “Certainly, sir. I’ll take down your flask to Mr. Blore.”

  Francis shook his head.

  “No, no, I couldn’t have that. There are some limits. But if I were to give you the money I suppose you could buy me a bottle in the village.”

  “I suppose I could, sir.”

  “You do it then, because I can’t myself. Just make it your job to see that that flask’s kept filled. And if it all seems rather odd, you just remind yourself that that’s just how we are on my side.”

  “I see, sir. Very good, sir, yes I see.”

  At one minute past nine Francis came downstairs. The house was silent. The passage under the gallery was cold. He put his hand over the grating. The air that rose from it was barely warm. He looked into the drawing room. There was no one there. From a black pile of coals a single thin stream of smoke was rising to the chimney. The room would not be habitable for an hour. The cushions on the sofa had recently been punched out. Everything looked very orderly. No one had been in here yet. He supposed that they were all at breakfast.

  There was no one in the dining room however. At one end of the table had been laid six places. At the other end was a pile of newspapers, neatly set out with one title below the other. On the sideboard were two large urns; beside them was an aluminium plate warmer, on which was a shining row of dishes. A fire was blazing
in the grate. An electric fire had been switched on. He wondered if he ought to start. He walked over to the window and looked out. The room faced onto a courtyard off which the stables opened. The stables, in contrast to the remainder of the house which in the course of alterations had been stuccoed over, were of red-brown brick. They had a unity and a dignity which the house as a whole, from what he had seen of it, appeared to lack. The stables were surmounted by a clock, black-faced with bright brass hands. “I’ll make a picture of that some time,” he thought. He would paint it from the other side: the modernized stucco contrasting with the older brick, the empty stalls symbolizing the change of living, the substitution of cars for carriages. It would make a good picture; if he could ever get the peace of mind to work here, that was to say.

  He turned back into the room. He glanced at the row of papers. He picked up the Daily Mail. It had big black headlines. It looked like a newspaper.

  England’s fate at stake, he read. It referred, he discovered, to a football match.

  I’m in a foreign country right enough, he thought.

  He looked over at the sideboard. The food must be spoiling. He lifted the lids of the dishes one by one. There was haddock, and kidneys and bacon and fried potatoes and kedgeree. There was a big bowl of porridge, and in a small bowl, wrapped round in flannel five soft-boiled eggs. There was also a large half-cut ham. It was astonishing how much the English ate or anyhow were given an opportunity of eating.

  He poured himself out a cup of coffee and took an egg. To his surprise the coffee, though unlike American coffee, was extremely good. He ate slowly, reading the paper, as he did so, expecting at any moment that some other member of the party would arrive. None did however. The butler came in once, lifted the covers of the various dishes, appeared to be satisfied, and went away. No sound of voices, no footsteps, no banging of doors, no barking of dogs disturbed the silence. It was quarter to ten before he left the room. He went upstairs to brush his teeth. Down the passage came the sound of running water. At any rate they weren’t all dead. His room had been tidied in his absence, and the fire laid. The wheels of service were revolving, clearly. The fire in the drawing room was now blazing brightly. But the cushions were still undented. Where was everyone? He looked out of the window; no signs of life there either. Beyond the formal pattern of the small Dutch garden, the lawns curved green and damp towards the paddocks. I’d better go outside, he thought.