Guy Renton (30 page)

She paused, looking at him interrogatively. It was a point that naturally he had himself considered. No. 17 was his now, by family agreement, and had he been married he would, of course, have agreed to make his home there, urging his mother to stay on with them, but not expecting her to accept the offer. But he could not as a bachelor turn her out. “You like being there don't you, Mother, it's a part of you,” he said.

Her reply surprised him. “I feel your father there all the time. I think I always shall. I like it to be the way he left it.”

“Well then, in that case, I think that settles it.”

“But why shouldn't you come out too: you could have your separate rooms and your separate life: it would be a great economy: one establishment instead of two. And perhaps now that you are taking your father's position at the office, you'll feel the need of entertaining in a more formal way. It would be very nice for me. It's worth thinking of.”

It would have been well worth thinking of had he been really in fact the bachelor he seemed. It would have been very pleasant to escape every evening from the tired petrol-clogged atmosphere of Soho, drive into the clean air of Highgate; to have sat out in the garden on summer evenings, to look over the spires and chimney
stacks of London; to wake with the sunlight streaming through his windows while Kensington still lay under its cloud of morning mist; pleasant too to live in the atmosphere of pictures, furniture, china, table ware that he had known since childhood: he would have enjoyed sitting in the chair that had been once his grandfather's; he would have liked entertaining, against the background of his inheritance. He had always thought of this house, of this furniture as being one day his. But how could he organize a life with Renée if he was living in the same house as his mother, or even if he was living as far away as Highgate? It was not practicable.

Next day he lunched with Renée in the Perroquet where Bellometti had now taken over Boulestin's former premises. It was another bright warm day, and the pale cerise pink fittings with the sunlight reflected on them in the mirrored walls gave the small narrow room an air of spring.

“Let's try and pretend it's summer still; let's have something cold,” she said.

Bellometti wheeled round his tray; it was a very appetizing collection of dressed crab, smoked salmon, scollop shells with fish and cucumber projecting white and green through a yellow covering of mayonnaise.

“Dressed crab,” she said, “and let's have Vouvray with it.”

She was wearing a small, side-tilted sage-green hat with a short white veil and a jay's feather stuck in the band. She looked as spring-like as the room.

“Will this make much difference to your position in the office?”

It was the first reference she had made to that aspect of his father's life. He nodded.

“Old Duke will be chairman now. It's usual for the chairman to give up actual office work. I'm the senior partner.”

“That means you'll run the office. Does it mean that you'll have less spare time?”

“It could, but I shan't let it. I can delegate a lot.”

“Aren't you very young to be in that position?”

He smiled, a little wryly. “Have you thought how few men of my generation ever came of age? Those that came through Loos,
were done with at the Somme. Those who were wounded in ‘15, were back for Passchendaele in ‘17. It was even worse for the generation before mine, the men who were in their later twenties when the war began. If there had been no war, I should be a quite junior partner.”

“Does this mean you'll be a good deal better off?”

“Quite a bit.”

Her eyes were upon him. He knew what she was wondering. She would never put him a direct question. She never needed to. “It's not going to make any difference to my way of life,” he said.

“No?“

“Why should it? That flat of mine is all I want. Possessions are responsibilities, and responsibilities become fetters. I'll get a new car and I'm thinking about hiring a chauffeur. Parking is becoming such a problem. A chauffeur might save me an hour a day and heaven knows how much wear and tear of nerves.”

“You re very wise.”

She paused. “I'd be sad if you were to move into another flat. It's so much ‘you'.”

He corrected her. “It's so much ‘us'.”

That afternoon on his return to Soho Square, he strolled through the counting house. Old Pilcher had retired now, with his room taken by his son. Guy tapped upon the door.

“Come in.”

The voice was clear, official, peremptory. As Guy opened the door, young Pilcher jumped to his feet as though he were a corporal. “Good afternoon, sir.”

Guy smiled. “I'd like a word with you some time this afternoon when you're not busy.”

“I could make myself free now, sir, if that would be convenient.”

“Shall we go to my room, it's quieter.”

Guy smiled as they made their way up the stairs. He wondered if young Pilcher was feeling anxious. Probably he was. It was in actual fact the first time that Guy had sent for him this way. Guy did not like the idea of summoning a member of the staff as though he were a colonel. He preferred to go down and see the
man; or ring him through, or if there was a conference to say, “I'm sorry to bother you, but Williamson's with me now and there's something that we'd like to have you explain to us.”

Guy savoured in advance the nature of the surprise he had for Pilcher.

“I expect you've heard,” he said, “that Mr. Duke, now he's chairman of the company, will be giving up his management of the office. That means I shall take his place; there will be a vacancy on the board of management. It has always been the privilege of the manager to regard that vacancy as his own appointment. With your permission I am going to put up your name to fill it.”

Never had Guy seen more surprised delight transfigure a human face. It was the last thing that Pilcher had expected. It was in fact the last thing he could have expected.

“I'm not surprised that you're surprised,” Guy said. “It's the first time that anyone not a member of the family has sat upon the board, but equally it's the first time that we've had anyone of your quality on the staff. I think this is something that we should celebrate. When can you lunch with me next week?”

And I doubt, Guy told himself, if in all the time I'm here I'll do a wiser thing. He had disarmed for ever a potential enemy. Young Pilcher had never ceased to resent the loss after the war of his officer status. He blamed that loss upon the firm. Guy sometimes wondered if he had not encouraged Franklin in his extravagances, had not enjoyed working him into a position that would culminate in his disgrace. It was dangerous to have a discontented man upon a staff. Pilcher might have spread an atmosphere of dissatisfaction through the office, might have become importunate in demands for increase of salary, might have spread jealousies. Now he was enrolled for ever as a loyal associate. Perhaps, Guy thought, Franklin had done the firm a service in retiring. Had he remained a partner, it would scarcely have been possible to have found a seat upon the board for Pilcher.

That year Roger's name appeared in the New Year's Honours List as a Knight Bachelor. Several newspapers referred to his expert services during the gold standard crisis.

“I shall feel so grand now, ringing up to ask if her ladyship's at home,” Guy said to Renée.

“I shall feel rather grand myself.”

“But even at that, Roger's not a member of the premier cricket club. You'll have to rely upon me to get Eric down for the Easter classes at Lord's.”

Lucy's elder son was taking the classes too. On the first Monday, in company with Renée, Guy lunched the boys at the Tavern, then took them into the pavilion to show them where to change.

It was a bitterly cold day, windy with intermittent showers, but luckily they were being coached in the lunch gardens behind the pavilion and not in the exposed arbours at the nursery end, so that it was possible for Renée and Guy to watch them, if not in comfort, at least in the dry. Eric had grown several inches since they had watched Hobbs last Test Match at the Oval: he was broader too. He had a free open style. He used his height and reach. He was being coached by Archie Fowler with whom Guy had played in several M.C.C. games. Archie came across to him at the end of the half-hour.

“Your son ought to make a lot of runs before he's finished.”

“He's not my son, I'm afraid. This lady is his mother.”

He took Renée to the Tavern bar. “Would you like a drambuie or a cherry brandy? It's cold enough.”

She shook her head. “Not at midday, but I'll watch you.”

“In that case no. If you'll excuse me, I'll go back and show the boys round the Long Room.”

Eric came back in high enthusiasm.

“Mummy, I saw everything, all those old pictures of cricket matches, when they had only two stumps, with a hole between, that's how they got the phrase popping crease. And I saw the old curved bats they used, just like golf clubs. I can't think how they ever hit the ball with them.”

All the way back to Albion Street he chattered away excitedly.

His enthusiasm was so genuine that two days later Guy, finding that he had no lunch date, decided to have a sandwich in the R.A.C. snack bar and go up to Lord's to see how the boys were doing.

He was touched by the welcome he received from Eric. The
boy wanted to browse afterwards in the Long Room. “Please, I only saw the half of it.”

Eric took a far more intelligent interest in the history of the game than Lucy's son, which was not surprising, Guy reflected, in view of the difference in their fathers. He asked Eric about his reading, and was pleased to find that he cared for poetry, that he read Kipling and Byron and Walter Scott.' What plays did he like best? Had he seen any Shakespeare? Yes, several plays.
Twelfth Night, The Merchant of Venice, Macbeth, and Julius Cæsar.
But he had not seen
Hamlet.

“They're doing it at the Old Vic now. Why don't we do a matinée?” Guy said.

“Could we? That would be wizard.”

How clearly Guy remembered his first
Hamlet,
being taken there by his father to see Irving. It would be exciting to take Renée's son. Eric would remember it all his life.

“Let's do that. I'll ring up your mother and fix a day with her.”

Would Renée want to come too? He supposed she would, but he half hoped that she'd refuse. He'd like it to be himself and Eric.

That evening Renée called him after dinner. “Eric enjoyed himself so much. You're spoiling him.”

“On the contrary he's spoiling me: he's such good company. We've a date for a matinée of
Hamlet.”

“I know, that's something that I wanted to talk to you about. It's all rather awkward. Roger was meaning to take him. He was keeping it as an end of holidays surprise.”

“In that case we'll wash it out.”

“I think, don't you, it would be better. He's put in an order for the seats——”

“Of course. I'll take him to something else. What would he like to see?”

“Oh, almost anything, but we've made a rule that he only goes to one theatre every holiday. And then there's that health certificate we have to sign that he hasn't been exposed to anything contagious and schoolmasters always ask us not to take them into any enclosed public space during the last ten days, and as the Easter holidays are so very short——”

He spared her further explanations. “Of course I understand. Let's leave it till next holidays.”

“That would be much better. It
was
kind of you to have thought of it.”

“It was a very obvious idea: and he's a very charming boy. Besides, I've very special feelings about him for his mother's sake.”

“Darling, that's the kind of thing ... please go on saying things like that. I'm seeing you to-morrow, aren't I?”

“I'm hoping so.”

“I'm counting minutes. I must rush now, darling.”

He rose thoughtfully from beside the telephone. Was that true, he wondered. Had Roger had seats for
Hamlet;
or had he felt angry that he hadn't, on learning that someone had planned to take his boy there? Hadn't Renée told him all those years ago that Roger could be jealous, though not where she was herself concerned. He could understand Roger wanting to take his own son to his first
Hamlet.
At the same time Guy wondered whether the situation had ever developed to that point. Wasn't it far likelier that when Eric had come back garrulous with the prospect of a treat, Renée had sensed danger, had said, ‘As a matter of fact, darling, your father already has seats for that, he was keeping it as a surprise'. Yes, it was far likelier that she had been on her guard against anything that would make Roger antagonistic towards himself, anything that might imperil their relationship, his and hers: she had sensed danger and averted it. He should feel grateful; flattered too. Yet all the same he would have enjoyed taking Renée's son to his first
Hamlet.

The call had come through to him at the Wanderers. The telephone boxes were in the hall. He mounted the wide stairway leading to the Drawing-Room. It was close on ten and the long book-lined room was nearly empty. Nobody was talking. One member was asleep, with the evening paper on his lap. Half a dozen others were seated in self-imposed seclusion with at least one empty chair dividing them from their nearest neighbour: they were all of them reading Library novels, detective stories for the most part. On several of the occasional tables were empty glasses; there was the smell of staling cigar-smoke on the air. He had heard it often said that nothing was more dreary than the
drawing-room of a Ladies' Club, “clustered with women that no man had a use for”. But was anything more depressing than the average man's club at ten o'clock at night? Wouldn't any reasonable woman take one look at it and flee? He felt lonely and disgruntled and the prospect of a return to Rutland Street depressed him.