The Merciless Ladies (6 page)

‘Can you spare another half-hour?'

‘On a good purpose, yes. Not on consoling a sulky idiot.'

‘Come on', I said. ‘One sulky idiot is enough.'

I don't know if I had any inkling of the truth at this stage, but certainly some very strong impulse persuaded me to go.

Leo's goitrous landlady stood exasperated, knuckles on hips, as we mounted the stairs. I went to Leo's door and knocked. There was no answer, so I tried the door. It was locked. I knocked again. Paul suddenly wrinkled his nose. ‘ Out of the way, Bill.'

He went back, took a run, butted into the door. It creaked and complained, but held firm.

He raised a foot and kicked violently at the panel just below the handle. After a few kicks it began to splinter, and he was able to get a hand in and upwards and turn the key. Amid shouts of protest from the mounting landlady we opened the door and entered a room full of gas.

II

We dragged Leo out on the landing. He was breathing still but was a very bad colour. We knelt there on the ragged linoleum trying to apply what resuscitation we could think of while the landlady moaned complaints about the damage done to her door and, when she could spare the time, offered useless advice on getting a doctor. In the end Paul shouted her down with a demand for water. I think it was his furious face more than anything that sent her scurrying.

I've seldom seen anyone so angry as Paul was that afternoon at Leo's action. In spite of his humble origin and the apparent ease with which he was at present adapting himself to a sophisticated way of living, he had certain ingrained values that his social behaviour didn't touch. Even a sense of form. This incident to him was bad form. He couldn't stand the hysterical in any guise. That anyone should try to put an end to himself for the inadequate reasons, that moved Leo; that anyone should take himself so seriously; particularly that it was Leo – and over a woman
he
had introduced him to …

We worked on Leo for a few minutes, but as soon as it became clear that the suicide attempt was going to be as much of a failure as the love affair that had provoked it, Paul got up, dusted his hands and left the rest to me. Then he limped off – having bruised his foot in breaking the door – before Leo had properly come round.

Later, at Leo's request, I went to Newton and told the Lynns a faked story to explain his absence from the Royal College of Music. They swallowed it without question. But Leo was so down I was a bit afraid that, despite promises to the contrary, he might give a repeat performance with greater success. It was with relief that I saw him begin to take an interest in his music again, and at the end of the year he left for Paris to continue his studies there.

Paul never afterwards mentioned the matter to me in any way. It was as if it was something indecent he had witnessed. Nevertheless I believe this was very much a motivating force – and one which has never been mentioned before – in the notorious quarrel in which he was to become involved.

But before that he married.

This is not meant to be a biography of Paul Stafford. It is the story of my relationship with him and those nearest to him. It is not meant to be the story of
my
life; yet inevitably something of my life must come in. That is what I mean by lack of perspective. Although often the observer, it was impossible for me to be the detached observer.

Thus with Olive Crayam. She'd been a student of M. Becker's at the Grasse School, and Paul had known her there. I had met her through Paul, and we had taken a fancy to each other. We'd been out together a number of times; twice I'd gone back to her apartment which she shared with two girls; the other girls were out; but little happened to match the lurid fancies of today. With Olive I think nothing
would
have happened, even if it had got that far. She was careful that nothing should occur before marriage. To some girls that is a matter of principle, and then in my out-dated view it is admirable. Olive's carefulness was more a matter of calculation.

Paul had been commissioned to do the designs for
A Midsummer Night's Dream
at the Old Vic – another feather in his cap – and although all this work was initially figurative, he extended his commission to paint a half-dozen of the main characters personally. Little Mark Alderson, who was playing Puck, was unavailable, so Paul asked Olive to sit for him.

She was right for it: very small, with small bones, lovely rounded limbs, unnoticeable breasts, a mischievous, gay expression. Auburn gold hair cut short – it was the day of the shingle – large and very beautiful ice-green eyes, a milky skin, small delicate ears.

So she sat for him, and the next thing they were engaged. Knowing him very well as I did and her better than most, it never seemed to me to be ‘on' as a likely match. Others of course have pointed out the advantage to them both. Paul was a rising man in the profession in which she had a fair talent: although of working-class origin he was quickly becoming one of London's most successful portraitists; he might become another Sargent; certainly he had an entry into the sort of society she would seek and enjoy. For his part, aside from her looks which probably suggested a dozen different poses, she came of a county family which traced its ancestry back to the Wars of the Roses, and in her turn she could bring him a society, and commissions in that society, which otherwise he wouldn't attain to.

If one had been able to overlook a mere matter of temperament it might indeed have been the perfect match.

Her father, Sir Alexander Crayam, was a tall, thin, desiccated man high in the Civil Service, with an absent manner, glazed eyes and a habit of moving his lips when he was not talking, as if dictating everlasting memos. Her mother was dark and neurasthenic, hated enclosed spaces, and complained of blinding headaches and lassitude. There had been three children, and the two eldest, both boys, had been drowned in a boating accident in Scotland.

Olive was twenty-one and Paul twenty-four. There was no cause for delay. It was going to be a grand wedding, and almost every guest was to be a potential sitter. Sir Alexander rented them a small house in Royal Avenue, and it was there that I frequently met them in the days before the wedding.

Olive went out of her way to be nice to me, in a sisterly way, of course, as if anxious to make it clear that she had no intention of coming between Paul and his best friend; and I appreciated this; though I remember at the time being ashamed of myself for wondering if it all rang true. One day, I know, we were leaving at the same time, while Paul was staying on to lock up after a plasterer had finished. It was raining, and she offered me a lift in her little Riley.

After we had driven for a while she said: ‘‘You're a dear man, Bill. I sometimes think I wouldn't have minded marrying you too.'

I looked at her fingers on the wheel. ‘ Polygamy is not a proper subject for a would-be bride.'

She laughed. ‘OK. I'll spare your blushes. It was just a thought.'

‘Of course', I said, ‘as best man I shall be standing next to Paul at the wedding, so perhaps we can whisper our vows on the side.'

She let in the clutch. ‘ Let's try.'

The screen-wipers stopped as she accelerated sharply away, then began to move again as she half-released the pedal. I looked at her composed face with its bow lips, tightly curling hair, skin of incredible fineness. The inscrutable Puck. I'm not sure that anyone has satisfactorily explained the psychology of smallness. Because small people feel themselves ignored, they tend to become thrusters: the Napoleons of the world are made as well as born. Legends too grow round them. When, a few years later, Chancellor Dolfuss was murdered by Hitler's thugs, few people knew enough of him to decide whether his good deeds more than balanced his ill, all they knew was that ‘little Dolfuss' had been foully done to death, and a wave of indignation swept Europe. In her own way Olive had the same advantages, and she made the most of them.

I said: ‘What do your parents think of the marriage?'

‘Disappointed.'

They're hiding it well.'

‘Oh, yes. But I was their remaining ewe lamb. Of course they weren't
too
fussy. Any old duke would have done.'

‘Paul's going a long way.'

‘And how far are you going, Bill?'

‘Remains to be seen.'

‘Not as far as you should if you stay in Paul's shadow.'

‘I don't think that applies.'

‘Be sure it doesn't. Were
you
disappointed?'

‘What about?'

‘The wedding, of course, you silly boy.'

I was on the point of replying as if the q uestion was meant, was I disappointed for Paul; just in time I avoided the awful bloomer.

‘I shall be envious on Tuesday.'

She laughed, pleased with the answer. ‘ Diana Marnsett is furious. But really furious.'

‘I'm not surprised.'

‘She looked on Paul as her special
protégé
, her special possession. She wanted him always dancing attendance.'

‘I don't think his worst enemies could ever see Paul as a dancing man.'

‘How far did it go between them, do you know?'

‘Afraid I don't.'

‘Dear Bill, always so loyal.'

‘It's not a question of loyalty', I said, irritated. ‘ I'm not his keeper.'

We stopped at a traffic policeman. ‘Light me a cigarette, will you?'

I did this. She said: ‘ Well, if La Marnsett has any girlish fancies about keeping tags, she'll have to think again.'

‘Olive', I said. ‘Diana Marnsett was invaluable to Paul a couple of years ago. He wouldn't have got where he is so soon without her. It's common sense and common manners to remember that. But that's all. That's it. Forget the rest.'

‘How wise you are.' This was not meant.

I began to speak again, and then stopped.

‘What were you going to say?'

‘No matter.'

We drove on to my lodgings. The car stopped and I turned up the collar of my raincoat before dashing for the steps.

What were you going to say?'

‘It wouldn't help.'

‘Try me.'

‘No advice is more unwelcome than the well-meant. It's just that – knowing Paul – and wishing you well, I would say, don't shackle him. You'll get your own way better with a loose rein – one he's not aware of. That way I think he'll be very indulgent – and kind.'

‘Thank you, Uncle Bill', she said, showing her pointed eye-teeth in a wide warm smile.

I left her with a feeling of unease. She still in an odd perverse way attracted me physically – perhaps always would – and, since the Puck painting, I for ever seemed to see her in the revealing boy's clothes. I could understand Paul's feelings for her, his wish to use her as a model again and again, his desire to paint her naked – if she would let him. Sensually she was a presence, inescapable. But what went on in that precise, cool, feminine mind? How far was she
committed
? At times these last weeks I had felt the first faint prickings of dislike. Or was this just jealousy? Because I was afraid she would come between Paul and me? Of course, that
must
happen. But would it break my association with them altogether? Behind her warmth there was an unwarmth. Behind her openness there was calculation. Behind her friendliness there was possessiveness. How far, subjectively, was I misjudging her?

A couple of days after this I went round to Paul's old place and found him working on a portrait, so waited in the kitchen drinking coffee until he had done. To pass the time I looked through a bunch of newspaper reviews of the year's Royal Academy exhibition. Paul had had his full quota again. It was becoming customary. I noticed the critics on the whole concentrated on ‘ Puck' as the work most worthy of mention. I picked out the adjectives. ‘Brilliant.' ‘Ingenious.' ‘Savoury.' ‘Enchanting.' Who could have wished for better? Almost the only dissenting voice was again Alfred Young in the
Daily Telegraph
.

‘Mr Stafford has been the victim of a reputation too easily acquired. He does his obvious talents injustice by neglecting taste in every element in these pictures, except that brilliant sense of tonality in which he generally excels. Despite the advantage of a very striking model, his ‘‘Puck'' is hard, the painting is metallic, the foliage is raw, there is no taste in the expression, air, or modelling.'

I put down the cuttings and picked up a list of wedding guests. As I was glancing down it Paul came in.

‘Some people say children are difficult sitters, but I prefer them. They've so much less to hide.'

‘Your father's name isn't here', I said. ‘Shouldn't it be, just to plan the seating arrangements?'

Paul helped himself to coffee. ‘I must go back in a minute: there are a few things I want to add now the boy's gone. Father? Oh, Father's not coming.'

‘Why, is he ill?'

‘No. I've not invited him. I've written to him, of course, to explain why.'

‘Write to me on the same subject', I said.

Paul stared into his cup, then dabbed a spot of paint off his index finger. ‘Aren't the reasons fairly clear? He'd be like a stranded fish.'

‘Isn't that for him to decide?'

‘I don't think he would realize.'

‘He'd come to his son's wedding, that's all that matters, surely.'

‘Look, Bill.' Paul pointed his stained finger at me. ‘At the moment that part of my life is behind me. I'm like the lady of sixty: sensitive about her age. In another ten years she'll begin to brag about it. Well, in another ten years I shall be able to brag about my origins. Not now.'

‘In another ten years', I said, ‘what difference is it going to make who was at your wedding?'

He shrugged irritably, finished his coffee and went back into the studio. I followed, and sat for a while watching him add a brush-stroke here and there to the portrait of Patrick Minister.