Stiff Upper Lip

Stiff Upper Lip

Lawrence Durrell

Illustrated by Nicolas Bentley

To

RICHARD ALDINGTON

who encouraged these follies

Contents

1. IF GARLIC BE THE FOOD OF LOVE …

2. STIFF UPPER LIP

3. THE GAME'S THE THING

4. SOMETHING À LA CARTE?

5. WHERE THE BEE SUCKS

6. THE UNSPEAKABLE ATTACHÉ

7. THE IRON HAND

8. THE SWAMI'S SECRET

9. A SMIRCHER SMIRCHED

“Answer me at once, or in Heaven's name I'll—”

1

If Garlic Be the Food of Love …

Every Wednesday now, in the winter, I lunch with Antrobus at his club, picking him up at the Foreign Office just before noon. I think he enjoys these meetings as much as I do for they enable him to reminisce about old times in the Foreign Service. For my part I am always glad to add an anecdote or two to my private
Antrobus File
—the groundwork upon which I one day hope to raise the monument of my own Diplomatic Memories.…

Yesterday his memory carried him back to Vulgaria again where he had served under Polk-Mowbray—and over De Mandeville—as Head of Chancery. “Bitter days,” he mused. “And perhaps one shouldn't talk about them. De Mandeville was in a queer state all that spring; perhaps it had something to do with the phases of the moon? I don't know. He was in a “Hamlet, Revenge!” sort of mood. The trouble seemed to centre about the Embassy table—as Third Sec. he had a watching brief on the food. It started I remembered with a series of Constance Spry table-decorations which made that otherwise fairly festive board look like an illustration from the Jungle Books. One could hardly carry a fork to one's mouth without biting off a piece of fern by mistake. Slices of decorative pumpkin and marrow gave a Harvest Festival note to things. One peered at one's guests through a forest of potted plants. Finally Polk-Mowbray put his foot down. De Mandeville became huffed. The next thing was he ordered Drage to serve everything from the right—in deference to a left-handed Trade Mission chief who was staying with us. It may have been tactful but it led to endless complications with us right-handed trenchermen who found everything upside down, and had to scuffle to rearrange our table-patterns as we sat down. And then what with Drage coming in so fast from the wrong side one was practically always out, hit-wicket on the
soufflé.
I tried to reason with De Mandeville but he only pouted and bridled. It was clear that he was in an ugly mood, old boy. I feared the worst. I have a sort of intuition about these things.

“The next thing in this chain of progressive sabotage was curry. De Mandeville had a series of Madras curries served. They were of such a blistering intensity that the entire Dutch Embassy had the inside of its collective mouth burned away—peeled off like bark from a tree, old boy. The Minister called on Polk-Mowbray in
tenue
and wanted to know if a state of war existed between England and Holland. His wife had to be treated for soft palate. A junior attaché went about saying that the Embassy food was full of quicklime and hinting darkly about damages. Naturally there were high words and massive contempts flying about which made Polk-Mowbray somewhat nervy. De Mandeville was sharply taken to task, but without avail. He next served an onion soup and black bread without soup-spoons. You know how long a rich onion soup takes to cool. Our little lunch-party dragged on almost to dusk, and several guests were lightly scalded because they neglected to take thermometer readings before gulping. The whole thing was gradually working up towards a climax. I saw it all coming and mentally, so to speak, closed my eyes and breathed a prayer to the Goddess of Diplomacy. I could not, however, guess from which quarter this warped and twisted Third Sec. might deliver the knock-out blow.

“Then … all this is in the strictest confidence, old man.… Then it came. Polk-Mowbray used to leave his office door wide open so I could see and hear all that went on therein. One morning I heard a familiar sort of row going on and I knew that the blow had fallen at last. Polk-Mowbray was hysterical. ‘I adjure you by the bones of Cromer', he was yelling, ‘to answer me without prevarication.
Have you been putting garlic in the food without telling anyone?
Did you, wittingly or unwittingly plug that
cassoulet,
impregnate that lustreless salad, order the peas to be lightly simmered in the stuff before serving? Answer me at once, or in Heaven's Name I'll—'

“De Mandeville made a gobbling self-deprecating sort of sound and spread his manicured hands as he muttered something about garlic being eaten in all the best London houses. It toned up the nervous system. Some said it was the only specific for scabies. One would have to be very retrograde to imagine.… And so on in this style. Veins were throbbing all over poor Polk-Mowbray by this time. ‘Do not try to justify yourself,' he thundered. ‘Answer me with a simple yea or nea. And take that beastly sensual smile off your face. If you choose to dine on heads of raw garlic with your scabrous chauffeur it is your business. But the Embassy table is sacred, do you hear?
Sacred.
If you do not answer truthfully I shall make you the subject of a General Paper to the Foreign Secretary.' There was a short silence during which they glared at each other. Then De Mandeville threw back his chin and uttered the word ‘yes' rather defiantly; he was wearing an obstinate Canine Defence League expression on his face. Polk-Mowbray levitated briefly and banged his desk with a triumphant. ‘Aha! So you
did.'
It was clear that De Mandeville was in for one of those Searching Reproofs. His Chief now began to walk up and down his own carpet as he always did when he was moved. He Pointed The Finger Of Scorn at De Mandeville in no uncertain fashion. ‘Wretch!' he cried in a shaking voice. ‘Could you not see the harm that might come from such reckless and criminal cookery? Moreover you choose the
one
lunch party of the year which is of policy importance in order to do me the greatest damage. Think of the Naval Attaché! What has he ever done to merit that unspeakable lunch—at which he ate far too heartily? And my niece Angela—what of her? And the Head of the Foreign Ministry—what of him?'

“De Mandeville tried to make a few unavailing protests. ‘Enough!' cried Polk-Mowbray hoarsely. ‘Surely you know that to feed a Naval Attaché garlic is like stoking a coke furnace with dead rats? Did you see his face as he lurched out into the afternoon? You did not know, I suppose, that he was due to lecture to the Sea Wolves on Temperance and Self-Denial at sea? He created a very poor impression in a very short time. The wretch now fears court-martial. He says that now whenever his pinnace is sighted they raise a Yellow Fever flag and forbid him access to the ship. I do not doubt that the dirk-point will be facing him when he walks into the ward-room. All this is on your head and more. Don't interrupt me. That is not all. Do you realize that when I helped the Minister into his car he was making a noise like a bunsen burner?
You
would not care that he had to address the High Praesidium that afternoon on Foreign Affairs—moreover in a language so full of aspirates as to make the gravest demands on his audience! No,
you
would not care, with your pumpkins and pottery and left-handed table arrangements! On you go in your headlong career, weaving these devilish plots around my table. And apart from all this what about
me. You
cannot be expected to know that I was booked to read the Lesson at a Memorial Service in the British Baptist Chapel which is notoriously cramped and ill-ventilated. How did you think I felt when I saw the first two rows of the congregation swaying like ripened wheat in an east wind? How do you think I felt when it came to my turn to embrace the hapless widow? She was breathing as if she had slipped her fan-belt. Answer me! You see, you haven't a word to say. You are mumchance as you jolly well ought to be. Fie on you, Aubrey de Mandeville!
You
did not stop to think what effect Angela might have on Cosgrave after such a lunch. The engagement was pretty tremulous as it was—but you snookered the wretched girl well and truly. And what of the typists' pool? Girls keeling over one after another as they tried to take dictation from us. What of them?' For a moment words failed him. His face worked. Then he said in a low murderous tone, from between clenched teeth. ‘I tell you that from now on there is to be no more garlic. Sage, yes. Thyme, yes. Rosemary, marjoram, dill, cummin, yes. Emphatically yes. But
garlic,
no!' And so the edict went forth and the sale of peppermints in the Naafi dropped off again.”

Antrobus sighed sadly over these memories as he replenished our glasses. Then he said musingly: “I should say really that Garlic was the biggest Single Cross a Diplomat had to bear in the rough old times. It
had
to be banned, old man. Yet in a sense we were all Living A Lie, like the Americans under Prohibition; for we all secretly yearned after the stuff. (I say this in the strictest confidence. I would not wish to be quoted.) Yet it is strange that this noxious bulb should have such an allure for men. As for diplomats, it played havoc with Confidential Exchanges; and as for dancing with your Ambassadress … well. It was the quickest way to get posted. That is why I was so relieved when the Age Of Science dawned. I used to be
against
Science once, and for the Humanities—I freely admit it. But when at last chlorophyl came in I was instantly won over. What a boon and a blessing to dips! What an over-riding sense of relief! Many a breach was healed that day between man and man. Even Polk-Mowbray in the end allowed the salad-bowl to be lightly rubbed with a couple of heads before serving. And I don't know whether you noticed the rather respectable little
ragoût
we have just been eating? Not bad for the Club, is it? But fear nothing! In my pocket lies a phial full of those little grey tablets which make human intercourse a rational, easy, unbuttoned sort of thing again. No more shrinking from pursed lips in The Office. We can hold our heads high once more! Let's drink a final little toast to the Goddess of the F.O. shall we? I give you Chlorophyl!”