An Accidental Man (6 page)

‘I say, have you told Alison?'

‘I never talk to poor Mama now on the telephone, it's too painful. I rang Char and Char will tell her.'

‘What was Charlotte's reaction?'

‘Dry. Surprised Gracie had that much sense. Poor old Char, she's always resentful and trying to score.'

‘She tries to put us down a bit, but that's natural. Of course she loves us, but she's got to defend herself. An elder sister always has ambiguous feelings about a younger one, especially when the younger one is happily married and she's single.'

‘And especially when the younger one has married the man she wanted!'

‘If Charlotte ever wanted me those wants are past and gone long ago.'

‘I'm not so sure. Charlotte is deep. She's distinguished and weird and proud. What goes on in my dear sister's mind I wonder?'

‘Nothing mysterious, Clara.'

‘All minds are mysterious. What goes on in your mind, Pinkie, if it comes to that? We talk ceaselessly and without a shred of concealment and yet the real quality of being you is utterly hidden from me.'

They looked at each other. George had no sentimental secrets from his wife, but there was one thing he had never told her. He had studied mathematics and intended to be a mathematician. But before those cold Himalayas of the spirit his courage had fainted, and he had turned early away to the world of the warm, the lucrative and the easy. He was a clever man and an able civil servant, but these were simple skills which he exercised, and he often felt his mind sluggish and cheated of greatness. He never talked to his wife about these matters or told her that he despised himself eternally for this failure. Yet perhaps now it did not matter too much, that pusillanimous choice, because as one grew older and saw death in the distance nothing mattered too much any more, even virtue.

‘You can read my mind as if it were all cast on a screen over my head,' said George, and drank some brandy.

‘Poor Char. I wonder how often she has regretted answering the call of duty and looking after Mama. I don't think she knew when she started how much of her life was being asked of her.'

‘It's been a long time.'

‘I know you used to think Mama was a
malade imaginaire
.'

‘She began as one. I think she was amazed when she found she was really ill.'

‘Well, Char got stuck long before that. Does one regret having been dutiful, I wonder?'

‘I think sometimes one regrets that most of all. Charlotte was trapped. It wasn't just duty.'

‘I know. Some people just miss the bus. Poor Char has had no sort of life.'

‘You're wrong. She plays a very special role. The role that some unmarried people play in the lives of their married friends. Married people need unmarried people. There's a kind of priestly efficacy.'

‘You mean Char's always available? She isn't, you know. She hates it all. She's not a kindly minister.'

‘That's not necessary. The thing is partly symbolic. She's
there
.'

‘Like the family cat!'

‘How is your mother, by the way?'

‘Sinking. I suppose she might go on sinking for years. You remember that crisis ages ago, and she recovered. I think all the same we won't have this house redecorated.'

‘You think this time next year we'll be in the Villa?' The Villa was the family name for Clara's mother's house in Chelsea.

‘I don't know. You won't mind Char being there too? Mama did say she was leaving the place to us jointly. We can convert the basement into a nice flat for Char.'

‘If we move in Charlotte will move out.'

‘Oh God. Well, let's not worry about it now. I must say the Villa is a stunning house. And it'll be marvellous to have some more space, after this shoe box. And some more money. Aren't I being hard-hearted and worldly?'

‘You used to say you enjoyed making economies. You used to say you'd hate to be rich.'

‘I'm growing old, Pinkie. I've changed my mind.'

Clara's mother, Alison Ledgard, had married an ineffectual solicitor who had wanted to be a poet but had written few verses after his marriage. Alison's own family however were Ulster linen merchants and Alison had been a considerable heiress.

‘You ought to see Alison more often,' said George.

‘I know I ought to. But it's so terribly painful seeing her so frail and not herself any more and some days she can't even speak. And all that fearful energy isn't gone, you know, it's just pent up inside, her eyes can
glow
, it's terrible. And somehow one feels her life was so wasted just because she was a woman. She ought to have been galloping across the steppes at the head of some horde.'

‘Has she met Ludwig?'

‘No. I somehow don't think she'll care now. When she got really ill she stopped being interested in the children. They are so bumptiously young.'

‘The terrible solipsism of youth can offend the old. Patrick has been quite good with her lately.'

‘Yes, Patrick is a bit quieter and more gentlemanly. I suspect it's the influence of Ralph Odmore.'

‘Charles says Ralph has stopped being a dandy and has become a hippie.'

‘Oh dear. Still, Patrick will look adorable with long hair.'

‘Gracie must take Ludwig to see Alison all the same. Gracie hasn't been near her for ages.'

‘I know. I have chid her, or does one say chided. She just says, “Shut up, Ma.” I do wish she wouldn't call me “Ma”, she does it on purpose.'

‘I remember Gracie saying that Alison's awful energy wore her out!'

‘I know what she means. Well, of course she must take Ludwig. A September wedding, don't you think? I wonder if we shall have the Villa by then. I wish Ludwig wasn't lodging with that ghastly gin-swilling Amazon.'

‘You mean what's-her-name, Mitzi Ricardo?'

‘Austin says she ought to have been a boxer. I wonder if she ever gave him a straight left? He'd like that.'

‘One does feel sorry for her.'

‘I think I'm going to give up being sorry for people, Pinkie, it does no good. What with poor Charlotte and poor Mitzi and poor Penny and poor Austin and poor Dorina —'

‘Oh Clara, I quite forgot a bit of news that I heard this morning. Austin has just lost his job.'

‘You mean got the sack?'

‘Yes.'

‘
Il ne manquait que ça
. Of course it was sure to happen. Like when he was in the army and just gassed himself as quickly as possible. What was he doing there?'

‘Clerical work.'

‘Poor Austin is no genius, but we must rally round. You can find him something, Pinkie. He must get a job before Garth comes home. Think of the loss of face.'

‘Garth would be censorious?'

‘Yes. I can't stand children who judge their parents. Thank God ours don't.'

‘How do you know?'

‘Well, they keep quiet about it. Garth used to be a little monster.'

‘It's not so easy to help Austin, he's so damn touchy.'

‘Let's ask him for a drink.'

‘He won't come.'

‘He's as bad as Char. I wonder what poor little Dorina will think of her husband's latest.'

‘I suspect Austin won't tell her. And, Clara darling, we mustn't tell her.'

‘You still think we should keep clear of the Valmorana set-up? I must say I'm suffering agonies of curiosity. Of course it serves Austin right for marrying into that sort of arty Catholic family. It's an alien tribe. Do you understand what's going on?'

‘No. I think we can't understand and we're better at a distance. Mavis doesn't want us round there sightseeing. And Austin would hardly welcome our advice!'

‘I remember he went for you once when you said something helpful. You were quite white!'

‘He suddenly became ferocious.'

‘He's a bit of a Jekyll and Hyde, our Austin. I think Dorina is afraid of him. You know, I suspect Austin originally thought that Dorina had money. She's the sort of girl who ought to have money, only it happens she hasn't. Of course she's socially one up from Betty, but just as poor. So Austin was unlucky again. Aren't I cynical?'

‘Any man could marry Dorina for love. She's enchanting.'

‘I am jealous. Yes, I know she is. She's one of those fey charmers. But what has happened to that marriage? Austin can't bear anyone to go near Dorina, yet he doesn't go himself.'

‘Well, don't you go. Let them sort it out.'

‘Not that I can take Valmorana really. You know the place is empty?'

‘Empty?'

‘Mavis has cleared out all her naughty girls and is having it redecorated.'

‘Is she going to chuck the hostel? I can't think how she stood it.'

‘I don't know. There's some change. Anyway she and Dorina are alone in that huge house, like a couple of Burne-Jones saints in a stained glass window. Mavis makes everything so fairies-at-the-bottom-of-the-garden, you know what I mean. And she's so peculiar about Dorina, half possessive and half pleased it's all turned out a mess.'

‘There's no contradiction there!'

‘Perhaps Austin married Dorina because Matthew failed to marry Mavis.'

‘The Matthew-Mavis thing is a figment of your imagination, my dear, like the Matthew-Betty thing.'

‘By the way, Hester Odmore phoned this morning. She's still down with Mollie at the Mill House. They've got poor Penny staying. They want to change the date again. I suspect they've had a grander invitation! She said Charles had met Matthew at that Conference in Tokyo.'

‘News of Matthew is rare. What of him?'

‘Charles says he's all right except that he's got terribly fat and lost his looks.'

‘Did he ever have any?'

‘Yes, in a Henry Jamesy sort of way. But he looks quite old now. Whereas Austin seems to get younger and younger in spite of his misfortunes.'

‘Geoffrey Arbuthnot says Matthew has made a packet speculating in Hong Kong.'

‘Good old Matthew. Socialism and mysticism have not precluded capitalism.'

‘He's not due to retire yet, is he? I suppose he'll settle in the east. I'm sorry we've lost Matthew.'

‘So am I, Pinkie. Somehow Matthew is fun. Like Austin.'

‘Good God, is Austin fun?'

‘Well, you know. You think Matthew won't come home?'

‘No. After all that power. Here he'd just be an elderly diplomat writing his memoirs. In the east he can keep some mystery in his life. Matthew needs mystery.'

‘In the east he can keep some servants in his life. Matthew needs comfort. He is a bit of a hedonist.'

‘But only a bit.'

‘You're envious, Pinkie. Possibly even jealous. You remember how awfully keen Gracie was on Matthew when she was a child?'

‘I say, did you tell Hester Odmore about Ludwig and Gracie?'

‘No. I hadn't heard the great news when she rang. Oh dear, oh dear. You know I am the tiniest bit sad about Sebastian. He would have been the perfect son-in-law.'

Mitzi Ricardo laid down her magazine and lifted the telephone. ‘Secombe-Hughes photographic studio, good afternoon.'

‘I say, Mitzi, it's me, Austin.'

‘Austin! How lovely. Long time no see.' Mitzi was blushing. She was very pale skinned and given to blushes and freckles.

‘Can I come round and see you?'

‘You mean now?'

‘Yes. Is old Secombe-Hughes there?'

‘No. He's out at the — He's out on a job.' Loyalty forbade her to disclose that her employer was at the betting shop. Business was not good.

‘Hooray. I'll come round in a taxi.'

The Secombe-Hughes photographic studio was a semi-basement in Hammersmith, with a damp wooden stair down to it from the street, and a well of bricked-in garden at the back full of docks and nettles and suckering elder bushes. Lurid green moss grew upon the brick walls and wafted its spores into the house where little lines of greenery appeared around windows and along wainscots. The studio was not designed for dwelling, having no kitchen or bathroom and only an outdoor lavatory shed whose arrangements had long since ceased to function. However, since the latest decay of business Mr Secombe-Hughes had been living at the studio, though he still feebly affected to conceal this from Mitzi by covering the camp bed with newspapers and pretending to arrive in the mornings. For a longer time he had been using the garden as a lavatory and had indeed almost entirely used it up, creating a special lingering foxy stench which even the summer rain, now liberally falling out of what appeared to be a blue sky, could never, with its pure celestial freshness, quite defeat.

Mr O. Secombe-Hughes — the O. stood for Owen, a name which he had vainly and without optimism implored Mitzi to employ — was a Welshman suffering in exile. His age was uncertain. He wore a bowed Druidic persona, would like to have had a beard only it would not grow, and had once won a small prize at an eisteddfod. He had been a fairly successful photographer. Photos of younger versions of some well-known faces adorned the albums. But drink and ill-luck and betting and Mr Secombe-Hughes's own special Welsh devil and, he occasionally hinted, women had done for him somehow. He had a few faithful clients. But there was no denying business was rotten. Mitzi rang the betting shop or the pub if anyone turned up.

Mitzi had come to typing late in life. She had never managed to master shorthand, she was a poor typist and she could not spell. She and Mr Secombe-Hughes seemed made for each other. He paid her modestly for her modest services and, as she guessed, liked her because he saw her as another piece of wreckage and in no position to judge him. Her mediocrity calmed his nerves. Later she noticed with some anxiety a tendency towards the sentimental. Mr Secombe-Hughes might have been good looking once. His eyes were still as grey and glittering as a slate quarry in the rain. But his face was podgy and crawled over by tiny scarlet veins and his longish greasy hair looked soaking wet. He had always been given to tossing his hair and peering, and it took Mitzi some time to realize that he was ogling her.