Guy Renton (23 page)

It was the question that Guy had known must come. He handed the slip of paper over, watched the expression on Mr. Duke's face change to one of incredulous stupefaction. “I suppose this is a joke,” he said.

“I wish it were.”

“But a sum of this size——”

“How much is it?” Mr. Renton asked. Duke handed him the slip. Very much the same expression came into Mr. Renton's face.

“Two thousand one hundred and thirty-seven pounds! But this is unbelievable. Our accounts department must be mad. Pilcher must be losing grip. We'd better pension him off at once.”

“It isn't Pilcher's fault. It was an A account.”

“On whose authority?”

“On Franklin's.”

“Franklin's?”

“I'd best explain, or try to.”

He put the matter as far as he conceivably could in his brother's favour. His brother hadn't realized the extent to which he was breaking the law. He had still an undergraduate's attitude to this kind of thing. This post-war generation were an irresponsible lot. They hadn't had proper discipline at school. Their brothers were at the war, the prefects were only sixteen years old. The best schoolmasters were away. He drew as many red herrings as he could across the trail. But there was no concealing the essential central fact of what Franklin actually had done. It was in order if not to conceal this fact but to detract attention from it that he turned to the practical problem of what was the next thing to do.

“I suggest,” he said, “that we get Franklin out of England as soon as possible. We can send him to Spain or Portugal, giving our people there a warning that his accounts need watching. The police may feel that they would like to ask him a few questions, but if he stays away for eighteen months, that kind of case blows over. New cases come up so quickly and a new magistrate has new problems. The family will, of course, make good out of its own pockets what the house has lost.”

Mr. Duke was in complete agreement; for personal as well as business reasons. “I think it would be a very good idea for that young man to acquire a little common sense before he marries Pamela. She's a very young girl. She needs someone to look after her. I wouldn't feel at all confident, no, not at all, about an early marriage. And if he were to be in London, meeting her all the time, it would be most upsetting for her, most: I'm sure, my dear Guy, you've got the right idea; let the boy have eighteen months in Jerez and Oporto and then see if he's acquired any common sense. In the meantime I think it would be just as well if the engagement were not officially announced.”

Mr. Renton raised no objection either. Afterwards however he slipped his arm through Guy's. “We're going to have a very difficult time with your mother over this. Will you be able to come out and dine to-night? You will. I'm very grateful. It might be as well if Franklin wasn't with us.”

After the board meeting Guy rang up Margery, to tell her what had been decided.

“Someone has got to be a scapegoat. I'm afraid it looks very much as though it will have to be Michael Drummond.”

“I trust not too much of one.”

“You can trust us to keep him this side of the bars.”

He said it jokingly, but he had underestimated his mother's power of aggression where her favourite child's welfare was involved. She listened, silent, unmoving, in her straight-backed chair: while Guy and her husband told the story, amplifying this point and curtailing that. She did not interrupt: but her silence was a greater strain than a sequence of interruption. Guy was vividly conscious of her mounting hostility. For the first time in his life he felt that his own mother was against him. She waited until they had finished.

“Is that all?” she asked.

“That's all.”

“Tell me about this Michael Drummond, how old is he?”

“About twenty-nine: old enough to have been in the war.”

“At least six years older than Franklin that's to say.”

“About that.”

“It was he who approached Franklin with the offer to join him in this night club?”

“Yes.”

“He knew, didn't he, that his club was being supplied through a bogus firm by wine bought from Duke and Renton?”

“Eventually, yes.”

“Then in that case I consider that he as the elder is entirely to blame. I am sure that any judge would agree with me. In my opinion you, or rather the firm, should take action against the Flamingo in recovery of your debt. I'm certain that the judge would place all the blame on this Mr. Drummond: that would clear Franklin's name.”

“We can't be sure of that. And anyhow Michael Drummond is a friend of mine.”

“Franklin is your brother.”

“That doesn't justify our doing a mean action to a friend.”

“Not if that friend has done you a great injury?”

“I don't consider that he has done us an injury.”

“How can you say that when it's through his influence that Franklin got mixed up with this Flamingo.”

“That isn't the point, Mother dear. The point is that Franklin was acquiring Duke and Renton's goods on credit and disposing of them in a way he had no right to.”

“He would never have done that unless he had been mixed up with this Flamingo.”

“There's nothing inherently wrong in being one of the proprietors of a night club.”

“Oh yes, there is; look what it's led to.”

It was an argument that went on for days, sometimes at breakfast, sometimes before dinner, sometimes after dinner—never during dinner when a parlourmaid was in the room—once right through the length of a seemingly unending week-end: sometimes just his mother and himself, sometimes with his father there, sometimes with Franklin or with Margery. Lucy was there once, but never Rex or Barbara. It was agreed that Barbara should not be told; Lucy had been sworn to secrecy. This was something in the family.

Part of the time Guy was not there himself; on his return to it he caught up the threads, so that later he was to recall it as one continuous argument, like a stage scene, with the various characters coming in and out, like the last act of a play by Granville Barker, with everybody talking and no one getting anywhere, with all through the action the central dominant figure of his mother, in her straight-backed chair, with her cheeks pale and her eyes bright and ten years added to her age, fighting, fighting, fighting, disputing every argument, switching to another issue when the arguments under one heading were overwhelming, fighting now from one angle, now another: a ceaseless, relentless rearguard action.

“If Franklin goes abroad it'll look as though he were being sent there in disgrace.”

With that one Mr. Renton dealt.

“You must realize, my dear, that what he has done is not particularly creditable.”

“He has made a silly, boyish mistake. If it had succeeded, you would all have said how astute he was. That's what big business is. That's why when I was young my grandfather would not have to the house anyone who was engaged in trade. They were not
gentlemen, he said. Things are different now. We have an aristocracy not of birth but money. We don't differentiate between a profession and a trade. But that's no reason why Franklin should be penalized for doing the equivalent of what every businessman does at some point or other.”

It was an impossible, exasperating argument. Mrs. Renton could not be kept to the point. But the main difficulty from Guy's point of view was his inability to play his own trump cards. He could not tell his mother about Franklin's Oxford misdemeanours. He could not give his reasons for seeing the episode not as a solitary slip, but as the direct consequence, the logical climax of a line of behaviour pursued ever since Franklin had been semi-adult. No one was aware of this except himself, and Pilcher: possibly young Pilcher. If his mother discovered that, it might break her heart. His father's family pride would be deeply wounded. You could not destroy the faith that people lived by, unless you gave them another faith to take its place and what alternative faith had he in this instance? No, he could not use those weapons. He had the irritating knowledge that Franklin was aware of this. There was the old twinkle in his eye when he remarked, once when they were alone, “It's too bad, isn't it, old boy, that you can't reveal all you know about my tattered past.”

Franklin treated the whole episode with his habitual insouciance. There was nothing he could do about it now. His fate lay in the hands of others. What was he feeling, Guy wondered, behind that mask of manner? What was he hoping to have decided for him? Did he really care, one way or another? Would nothing weaken his belief in his capacity to charm the world into presenting him with its rich prizes, unearned and undeserved? Did he feel that it didn't much matter what happened to him, since he would always come out on top? He gave no clue; he left Guy with a free hand to negotiate on his behalf.

Guy returned to the same point again.

“You haven't got this quite clear, Mother dear,” he said. “Pilcher knows about this, young Pilcher knows about it. If we don't take some action, we'll undermine discipline right through the office. If a junior partner can get away with that, the staff will feel that they can try out anything.”

The answer came pat. “You always take the other side. What the staff will feel, what you owe to a friend like this Mr. Drummond. You don't seem to have considered those who are on Franklin's side. What does Pamela think about all this?”

“She's not been told.”

“What? But surely she ought to be the first to hear. It affects her more than anyone.”

“That's why we didn't tell her. It was her father's special wish. She's very young. It would be a great shock to her. It might break her faith not only in Franklin but in men generally. It wouldn't be fair to tell her.”

“So she doesn't know.” It was said ruminatively. There was a quick gleam in Mrs. Renton's eyes: it vanished suddenly: but it was a look of excitement, almost of triumph. She looked as though she had reached some decision. She changed her tack quickly.

“Have you considered what effect this will have upon Franklin himself? He'll feel himself in disgrace. It may break his confidence in himself.”

“If he stays on in London, he's in very serious danger of being an object of public scandal.”

“He wouldn't be if the matter was handled sensibly, if the proper action was taken against the real guilty party. Who is this Mr. Drummond after all: is he such a very great friend of any of us?”

It was said when Margery was in the room.

“He's a very great friend of mine,” she said.

Her mother flashed her a quick glance. “Oh, so it's that way, is it?”

Guy had, as he had had with her before, a sense of his mother's acute perspicacity within the narrow radius of her interests. She changed her angle.

“Can you imagine how Franklin will feel, alone in a strange city, without friends. Franklin depends on friends. He enjoys company. He'll be lonely. He might get into a wrong set.”

She had switched now on to another tack, on to Franklin's weakness. “He's very young, far younger than we realize sometimes; and he didn't have the discipline of the war. Anything might happen to him there.”

No, his mother was by no means blind to what was going on. She had no illusions about Franklin, though she would not have allowed anyone else to criticize him. Quite probably she would not be in the least surprised if she were to learn of his Oxford debts; to her it would be in character. At the same time she would not admit it. That was why he himself, as her son, would have to remain silent.

Back and forth the argument was carried, with no real progress being made: but the plans being quietly matured for Franklin's transference to Oporto. Mr. Renton had kept himself as far as possible in the background. “There's only one thing to do with women, my dear boy,” he said. “Present them with a
fait accompli.
Listen to what they have to say, don't lose your temper, don't contradict them. Then tell them what you've yourself decided. When everything's settled—and everything is practically settled—we'll hand the boy his ticket and say ‘you leave on Friday'.”

It was that precise moment just when the confirmation of Franklin's appointment had come through from Portugal, that Mrs. Renton loosed her counter attack. “Barbara's bringing Pamela out to lunch next Sunday,” she announced. “It would be nice to have a last family party before Franklin leaves us, since it seems to have been decided that he is to leave us.”

From the moment Pamela arrived it was obvious that something was afoot. Pamela was vague, abstracted; not appearing to hear what was said to her, answering at random, beginning to make a statement then abandoning it half-completed, and relapsing into silence. Franklin watched her with a puzzled, affectionate amusement. “If you were anyone but who you are,” he said, “I'd be wondering whether you'd had four or five martinis on the way here.”

There was a general laugh: there were five of them there altogether, in addition to the young couple; there were the parents, Guy, Margery, and Barbara.

Pamela flushed. “I'm sorry,” she began; then stopped: opened her mouth, gulped, jumped to her feet and stood there, straight like a spear, her cheeks flaming, her eyes ablaze, her chin trembling.

“I'm sorry,” she said. “I promised not to refer to this till after
lunch. But I can't keep it bottled up any longer. I'd explode. I've heard all about Franklin's trouble. It was very silly of him, but we all do silly things. It's when we do silly things that we have a right to expect to have our friends stand by us. Certainly the girl who he's asked to marry him. I want to marry him right away and go out with him wherever it is he's going. I want everyone to know that I believe in him.”

There was a moment of silence. It was a moment that Guy was to remember all his life: as a symbol of youth's untarnished courage, of its faith, its idealism, its capacity for self-sacrifice. He had read of' transfigured faces'. He saw one now. Franklin rose to his feet, crossed over to Pamela and slipped his arm through hers. “Darling, shall we go into the garden and talk this over?”