Black August (7 page)

‘You
can't,
Veronica.'

‘Darling, why not? He's got a delicious wit, really artistic taste, and we could have a bedspread sewn with diamonds. What more does any girl want?'

‘Someone to be really fond of—don't you think?'

‘What rippling rot, Fiona. Everybody gets divorced after two years these days.'

‘Ugh!' Fiona gave a little shudder. ‘Just to think of that blue chin pressed against my neck makes me sick—and he's old enough to be your father—you simply couldn't!'

Veronica leaned back and gave a shout of laughter. ‘You pet!—how gloriously serious you are!'

‘I detest lecherous old men.'

‘I don't—they amuse me. Besides he's no age really—forty-five perhaps. Anyhow I should
trompée
him and have dozens of handsome young lovers!'

‘How's Alistair, as mad about you as ever?'

‘Yes, poor lamb—and I thank you, my love, Major Hay-Symple is in excellent health. He was with us at Holkenham.'

‘To help Kenyon with the campaign or to flirt with your ladyship?'

‘Both!—but my ladyship was rather unkind I fear. Holkenham is no place for parlour games. If we'd been rumbled by the Bronsons they'd have spread the most ghastly scandal about me in ten ticks. I simply didn't dare risk it, so Alistair had to console himself by punishing the port. He was a great success with the children though.'

Fiona looked puzzled. ‘I didn't know there were any.'

‘Oh, in the house?—thank God, no! that would have been the last straw. I mean the young Britons. We made him tell them “What I did in the Great War, Daddie!” He simply hated it, of course, and he was only some sort of junior dogs-body at the time, but he got crossed fig-leaves or something for some act of idiocy he performed when he was tight as an owl—they lapped it up! He had to leave us on Saturday though, he was recalled by telegram.'

‘Yes, all leave has been cancelled. Peter says the Government have got the wind up to the eyebrows—but about Alistair. Why don't you marry him, Veronica?'

‘My sweet, you know perfectly well that he hasn't got a cent.'

‘But he'll come into the place when his father dies.'

‘Yes, when he's ninety—and I've grown a lovely long dewlap, thank you, darling—No!'

‘Oh, Veronica, don't be absurd.'

‘I mean it, lovie—these 'ere surgeons is that ‘andy wiv their h'instruments nowadays they keeps all the old crocks in the ‘untin field until they're h'octogenarians!'

‘You'd be very happy with Alistair.'

Veronica stretched her slim arms above her head and smiled indulgently. ‘You think of everybody in terms of Peter and yourself—and, little sentimental fool that you are—I adore you. But I always have been attracted by strange men—and I shall always be liable to go off the rails with any new man who comes along if he's got brains and guts.'

‘Well, you can't say that Alistair lacks guts, and he's got brains as well—he's been through Staff College.'

‘Yes, with a kick in the pants!—as for guts, darling, he keeps them filed away in the War Office to be taken out when wanted, so they're not the kind I care about. Tell me, is Peter coming in to booze with us this evening?'

‘Yes, about six I expect, it's nearly that now.'

‘Marvellous—I tried to get several chaps but they are all in their little blue uniforms playing at Special Constables, or busy joining Llewellyn's comic opera Greyshirts. Still, Alistair is coming in for half an hour, and Kenyon will be in any moment so they'll be able to tell us all about Auld England on its last legs. I suppose you haven't seen an evening paper, have you?'

Fiona shook her head. ‘No, but I believe that there's been awful trouble in the north. Dorothy—you know, the fair girl who does my hair at Ernaldé's, told me that Glasgow is completely cut off, and a railway bridge blown up so that no trains can come through.'

‘My dear! these filthy Communists.'

‘Terrible, isn't it, but I suppose we shall pull through somehow—we always seem to!'

‘Of course, darling. Everything would have been straightened out years ago if it hadn't been for those pompous old lunatics in the Cabinet. Half of them are absolutely gaga.'

‘Well, if somebody doesn't do something soon we shall be in a
fine mess. Lots of people are so scared they are leaving for the country.'

Veronica blew out a thin spiral of smoke and nodded. ‘Herbert said something last night about packing Juliana Augusta and me off to Banners.'

‘That sounds rather grim.'

‘Quite shattering, my dear, just think of mother and me cooped up at Banners without a soul to separate us when we fight. The thought appals me.'

Fiona turned as the door opened behind her. ‘Hullo, Kenyon, my dear. How are you?'

‘Splendid, thanks. Electioneering can be almost as good exercise as polo. How's Peter?'

‘He's very fit, but so swollen-headed I hardly know what to do with him. Last Sunday he got round the Red course at the Royal Berks in 82. He'll be here in a moment and then you'll have to hear all about it.'

‘Good for him—but all the same, I flatly refuse to listen to any more golfing stories except from registered voters in my own division.' Kenyon glanced at his sister, ‘Well, long-legs—what about a drink?'

‘Brute!' she flung at him, ‘how many times have I told you that I absolutely forbid the use of derogatory terms in connection with my delicious limbs. The drinks are in the cupboard,
and,
my boy—may I remind you that it is your turn to pay?'

‘But hang it, we were away all last week,' he protested as he opened the cupboard. ‘Still there's lots here—some fresh bottles, too!'

‘Yes, my love—I ordered them this morning.'

‘Oh, well that was decent of you—I take it all back.'

Veronica suddenly guffawed with laughter, ‘and I put them down to your account at Justerini's! Tra-la-la … tra-la-la!'

‘The devil you did! I owe them quite enough already.'

‘Never mind, Herbert pays his bills regularly so they won't worry you.'

‘I dare say not, but I hate running up big bills. Electioneering is the most expensive pastime I know after yachting.'

‘You forgit the lidies, dearie!' mocked Veronica. ‘All the same I think Herbert is a mean old pig to make us pay for our own tipple.'

‘Does he?' exclaimed Fiona. ‘I thought he was supposed to
have one of the best cellars in England?'

Veronica nodded. ‘Yes, sweet, and sherry, if you like it, is “on the ‘ouse” as they say. But Herbert doesn't approve of cocktails so we pay for our three pen'oth of gin in turns.'

The door opened again and a footman in plain livery announced ‘Major Hay-Symple.'

‘Hullo, Veronica—Fiona, how are you? How's Peter, eh?—Hullo, Kenyon, old boy!' The rather thickset soldier with lively blue eyes threw a quick succession of smiles at them all. For a moment they stared at him in mild surprise. His immaculate khaki tunic with its little row of ribbons, wide breeches and shining field boots seemed strangely alien upon this intimate friend. That he should arrive at a cocktail party in uniform brought home to them more than any newspaper placard the gravity of the situation.

Then Veronica jumped up, and flinging her arms wide, kissed him with a loud smack on the forehead. ‘Alistair, my hero! come and sit here by me. What news out of Flanders, laddie? Stand the King's colours where they stood—spare not the gruesome details for we are women of England. What news of the War?'

‘Eh—what's that? What war?' Hay-Symple looked vaguely astonished at her onset.

‘The rioting or whatever you call it, stupid—in all these horrid places that no one ever goes to!'

‘Oh, well—there's been a spot of bother in the North.'

‘God! what a man!' Veronica sank back on the sofa, her hands clasped dramatically to her head. ‘Details, my good fool—details are what we want.'

He grinned good-humouredly and took the cocktail that Kenyon held out. ‘Well, there's trouble in Glasgow; the wires are down and some of these blackguards have sabotaged a bridge, but it's nothing to worry about. Three battalions of the Highland Division have been concentrated there, and they're great fellows—know a lot of 'em myself. They'll soon put things right.'

Veronica shook him gently by the shoulder. ‘You divine person, we heard all that hours ago from Fiona's hairdresser. Do you really mean to tell us that you don't know anything more?'

‘Not much,' he smiled at her affectionately. ‘We're just standing by. Have to give a telephone number if we leave barracks for more than half an hour—that's all.'

Kenyon filled up Fiona's glass from his shaker, then he looked across at Veronica. ‘Why waste your breath, sweet Sis?' he inquired with gentle sarcasm. ‘Don't you realise that Alistair rides one of the King's horses and is one of the King's men. If he did know anything he wouldn't tell
you
in a thousand years. It's his job to keep his mouth shut.'

‘That's true.' Hay-Symple ran the back of his hand under his upturned moustache, ‘but honestly I know little more than you can read in the papers. Only odds and ends about what to do in the event of an outbreak of plague and that sort of thing.'

‘Gadzooks! these men—what children they are,' Veronica exclaimed to Fiona. ‘Let's all play robbers—but don't tell the girls, they'd spoil everything!'

‘The children must have their fun, darling!' Fiona smiled, ‘they are all going to be so important now. Alistair will run up and down in a nice brass hat before he's much older. Kenyon will be given a purple ribbon for his button-hole, so that everyone will get off the pavement knowing him to be an M.P.—and Peter—well poor Peter will have to put up with a little red, white and blue shirt just to show he's on the right side in this General Strike.'

‘It's all very well for you young women to scoff, but you may be almighty glad we've got an Army before this business is through.' Hay-Symple held out his glass, ‘Here, Kenyon, old man, give me another, will you?'

‘Why do you compare this with a General Strike?' asked Kenyon curiously.

‘Well, isn't it?' Fiona parried. ‘They've been having the most ghastly trouble up at Peter's works in Sheffield since they stopped supplying the Balkans with munitions, and he's always said that when steel went down the drain, everything else would go too.'

‘I agree that all these strikes and stoppages have helped to bring it about, and the Communists have played an enormous part in aggravating the situation; they are so much stronger now, but that's where the resemblance ends. The Trade Unions and the working men are no more responsible for the present state of things than we are. It is the effect of colossal bad debts made through other countries cracking up—taxation of industry out of all proportion to the profits made, and the complete stranglehold which the banks have acquired on every form of property and business. As long as they maintain their policy
of refusing further advances without adequate cover more and more people are bound to go under, and every crash gets us nearer to six million unemployed—which in turn means more taxation for the poor devils who are still striving to carry on. That is the vicious circle we are up against.'

Fiona nodded. ‘Yes, the rations for the unemployed have got to be paid for somehow of course, but I don't see why the banks should lend money without security all the same.'

‘They are getting it in the neck today,' observed Hay-Symple, ‘half London was queueing up this morning to get their money out.'

‘Effect of last night's moratorium.' Kenyon patted his breast pocket. ‘I was on the doorstep round the corner when they opened today and drew out a couple of hundred. The bank was chock-a-block with people then.'

‘But why the panic, lovie?' inquired Veronica.

‘Well, I knew there would be a rush, and it's just possible that they may not be able to stand it.'

Hay-Symple swallowed the remainder of his second cocktail, ‘I don't see why—we're not on gold.'

‘Gold has nothing to do with it. The loans made by the banks are always bigger than their deposits—which is a strange situation anyway, but if they can't collect their loans they are stuck—whatever they are paying out in. They need time to realise their stock just like any other business.'

‘I should think it will put the lid on it if they do close down.'

Kenyon's reply was cut short by the reappearance of the footman, ‘Mr. Hetherington, milady.'

‘Hullo, Peter—Hullo!—Hullo! …'

‘Hullo, darling … Hullo, Kenyon …' the greetings flew round.

Hetherington smiled affectionately as he took Veronica's hand, ‘Look here, my dear—I've only come in to collect Fiona—you must forgive me if I don't stay.'

‘Why the hurry, Peter my love, someone chasing you with a writ?'

‘Perish the thought! No, but I want to take her back to pack.' He turned and stooped over his wife's chair; ‘I've just left your old man at the club, my sweetheart, and we both agree that it will be best if I motor you up to Scotland tonight.'

My sainted aunt!' shrieked Veronica. ‘Am I tight or have we all gone mad?'

Hetherington turned to her with a grave face. ‘Honestly, my dear, we're in for trouble, and I mean to have Fiona out of it. Up in the Highlands among her own people on the West Coast she'll be safe—whatever happens in the towns.'

‘You stupid darling!' Fiona smiled up at her large husband, but the protest was a caress and the sharp eyes of Lady Veronica Wensleadale, which never missed a trick, caught anxiety and adoration in the quick glance of the man as he bent over his wife.