Not to Disturb (10 page)

They settle themselves accordingly. The cameras flash.
Microphones are thrust forward to their mouths like hot-dogs being offered to
hungry pilgrims.

The voices drown the hectic howl which descends from the
breakfasting bridegroom.

Eleanor is saying, ‘Like a runaway horse, not going
anywhere and without a rider.'

Hadrian is saying, ‘The flight of the homosexuals . . . '
to which his questioner, not having caught this comment through the noise,
responds ‘. . . the flight of the bumble-bee?' ‘No,' says Hadrian.

Lister is saying, ‘. . . and at one time in my youth I
was a professional claque. I applauded for some of the most famous singers in
the world. It was quite well paid, but of course, hand-clapping is an art, it's
a question of timing. . . . '

‘Togetherness . . . ' says Irene.

Hadrian is saying, ‘Death is that sort of thing that you
can't sleep off. . . . '

Pablo's voice cuts in, ‘. . . putting things in boxes.
Squares, open cubes. It's a mentality. Framing them. . . . '

Eleanor says, ‘Like children playing at weddings and
funerals. I have piped and ye have not danced, I have mourned and ye have not
wept.'

Lister, turning in his chair to a prober behind him, is
saying, ‘He didn't do his own cooking or press his own trousers. Why should he
have consorted, excuse my language, with his own wife?'

Clovis says, ‘. . . not on the typewriter — you wake the
whole household, don't you? What I call midnight oil literature is only done by
hand. It's an art. Yes, oh no, thanks, I intend to make other arrangements for
publication.'

Irene is saying, ‘No, he wanted it that way, I guess,
until she did a Lady Chatterley on him . . . A Victorian novel, don't you know
it? She was really quite typical at heart when it came to Victor.'

Lister is heard to recite, ‘For the thing which I greatly
feared is come upon me, and that which I was afraid of is come upon me. I was
not in safety, neither had I rest, neither was I quiet.'

Eleanor is saying, ‘No. No living relatives on her
side.'

Pablo says, ‘Ghosts and fantasies rising from
sex-repression.

Clovis says, ‘Descendant of the Crusaders.'

‘. . . somewhat like the war horse,' says Lister, ‘in the
Book of Job: He saith among the trumpets Ha! Ha! and he smelleth the battle afar
off, the thunder of the captains and the shouting. . . . '

‘. . . hardly ever seen,' Eleanor is saying. ‘He wears a
one-piece suit zipped and locked. The Swiss invented the zip-fastener. . . .
'

‘Well it's like this,' says Pablo, ‘if you put friendship
out to usury and draw the interest. . . . '

The Reverend has now come down for his breakfast and
stands bewildered in the doorway of the servants' sitting-room where Eleanor and
Clovis are holding their crowded conference. He has his press-cutting in
hand.

‘Reverend!' says Eleanor, pushing over to him.

‘There's a man on the landing outside my room. He made me
come down the back stairs. Where's Cecil Klopstock? I want to show him
this.'

Eleanor is swept away and replaced by five reporters.
‘Reverend would you care to elaborate on your statement about the sex-drug . . .
? Did the Baron . . . ?'

Eleanor, herself surrounded once more, is saying, ‘. . .
frothing and churning inside like a washing machine in full programme.'

Lister, beside her, addresses another microphone, ‘The
glories,' he says, ‘of our blood and state

Are shadows, not substantial
things;

There is no armour against
fate;

Death lays his icy hand on
kings;

Sceptre and crown

Must tumble down,

And in the dust be equal made

With the poor crooked scythe and
spade.'

‘Could you repeat that, sir?' says a voice. Clovis pushes
his way through the mass of shoulders and reaches Lister. ‘Phone call from
Brazil,' he says. ‘The butler won't fetch Count Klopstock to the phone.
Absolutely refuses. He's locked in the study with some friends and he's on no
account to be disturbed.'

‘Leave word with the butler,' says Lister, ‘that we have
grave news and that we hope against hope to hear from the Count when morning
dawns in Rio.'

Hadrian is saying, ‘When my brother had the flower-stall
at the Piazza del Popolo and Iolanda had a little pitch for the newspapers a few
steps away . . . It was a windy corner.'

The Reverend, though trembling, is eating his breakfast in
bed. The storm has passed and the sun begins to show itself on the wet bushes,
the wide green lawns and the sodden rose-garden. The reporters with their
microphones and cameras have trickled away. Lister is looking at the
cigarette-stubs on the floor. Clovis opens the kitchen window. A homely howl
comes down from the attic.

A car approaches up the drive.

‘No more,' says Lister. ‘Send them away.'

‘It's Prince Eugene,' says Eleanor. ‘He's gone round the
front.'

‘Well, he'll be sent round the back,' says Lister,
kicking a few cigarette stubs under the sideboard. ‘Let us all go to bed.'

Footsteps can he heard squelching round the back of the
house, and the top half of Prince Eugene's face appears at the open window.

‘Have they all gone?' he says.

‘It's our rest-hour, your Excellency.'

‘I'm a Highness.'

Eleanor says, ‘Was there something we can do for you,
your Highness?'

‘A word. Let me in.'

‘Let his Highness in,' says Lister.

Prince Eugene enters timidly. He says, ‘The neighbours
have been parked out on the road all morning. They didn't have the courage to
come. Admiral Meleager, the Baronne de Ventadour, Mrs Dix Silver, Emil de Vega,
and all the rest. Anyway, I got here first. Can I have one word with you,
Lister, my good man?'

‘Come into the office,' says Lister, leading the way into
the pantry office. Mr Samuel's camera flicks imperceptibly, just in case.

Prince Eugene takes the chair indicated by Lister. ‘Any
of you like to come over to my place? Have you thought it over? It's very
comfortable. I can offer —'

‘At the moment, sir,' says Lister, ‘we want to go to
sleep and we don't want to be disturbed.'

‘Oh, quite,' says the Prince, rising. ‘It's only that I
wanted to get here before the others.'

‘It's very understandable,' says Lister, rising, too.
‘But in fact we've made our plans.'

‘Miss Barton? — Would she consider a few light household
duties? Surely the poor fellow can't go on living here?'

‘Miss Barton will be needed. Heloise desires her to stay.
Heloise was a parlour maid but she married the new Baron early this
morning.'

‘You don't say! They got married.'

Lister whispers in his ear.

‘Oh, I understand. Quite drastic, though, isn't it?'

‘They can marry or not marry, as they please, these days,
sir.' says Lister. ‘Times have changed. Take Irene, for instance.'

‘Which one is Irene?'

‘The very charming one. Quite the most attractive. A very
good little cook, too.'

‘I can offer her a very good wage.'

‘These days,' says Lister, ‘they want more.' He again
murmurs a few words in the Prince's ear.

‘I'm not the marrying type,' whispers the Prince
shyly.

‘It's the best I can offer, your Highness. She's happy
enough with her evening off at the airport.'

‘Well, I'd better be going,' says the Prince.

‘Thank you for calling, sir.'

Lister leads the way to the back door, where Prince
Eugene hesitates and says, ‘Are you sure we can't make some alternative
arrangement with Irene?'

‘Yes,' says Lister. ‘I have others in mind for her in
this part of the world who would be grateful to have her seated at their table.
She's a very capable young housekeeper. The Marquis of —'

‘Very well, Lister. Arrange the details as soon as
possible. Accept no other offers.'

The Prince tramples round once more to the front of the
house, gets into his car and is seen to be driven off, sunk in the back seat,
pondering.

The plain-clothes man in the hall is dozing on a chair,
waiting for the relief man to come, as is also the plain-clothes man on the
upstairs landing. The household is straggling up the back stairs to their beds.
By noon they will be covered in the profound sleep of those who have kept
faithful vigil all night, while outside the house the sunlight is laughing on
the walls.