The Oracles (9 page)

Getting into the skin of a part was Mr. Prescott’s hobby-horse. He was fanatically attached to the Drama. He began now to lay down the law about it and Dickie heard these well-known maxims with relief, since they heralded the end of the social overture. They were still going on when a ring at the door took him out into the hall, to admit a late arrival.

This was Mr. White, a newcomer to the town, a clerk at the gas-works. He was very much pleased to be acting in the play because he was anxious to know more people. He was already apologising when Dickie opened the door:

‘I hope I’m not frightfully late. The Johndarm doesn’t come in till the end, so I thought they could begin,
without waiting for me. My landlady wouldn’t give me an early supper.’

He gazed with humble admiration at Dickie, who was so important a person in East Head. Dickie smiled his nice smile and explained that they had not begun yet.

‘You’re with Ma Cox in Exton Street, aren’t you? She’s a terror. Everybody has to go to her at first, till better digs turn up. You won’t be there long.’

White’s anxiety was allayed. Going to awful Mrs. Cox had not, after all, been so very stupid. Everybody had done it. He was treading the appointed path in this new community, and he was pleased to hear Mr. Pattison call her Ma Cox. Not every man in his position would have done so, or talked the language of smaller fry as though he might have been through it all himself. No wonder everybody liked him!

After showing the Johndarm into the lounge Dickie stood in the hall for a moment, fighting off depression.
Ma
Cox!
I don’t generally call her that. I said it on purpose to cheer poor White up. What a good fellow I am! Saying the right thing to everybody. Mexico …

A door opened upstairs. Christina and Mrs. Hughes were returning from their inspection of Bobbins.

‘I shouldn’t have allowed it,’ Christina was saying. ‘But I shan’t let it happen again.’

‘It doesn’t do,’ said Mrs. Hughes, ‘to try to order them about too much, you know, dear.’

‘Oh, I’ve been very tactful. Very nice about it. That strengthens my position. But I won’t have Dickie getting in with people like that.…’

Dickie, aware that he was eavesdropping, bolted back into the lounge. He took his part and retired with it into a corner, pretending to learn it. Not tonight, not just yet, could he make it up with Christina.
I
shouldn
’
t
 
have
allowed
it
.…
That
strengthens
my
position
.… His ardour had completely evaporated.

‘What awful faces Dickie is making,’ whispered Mrs. Hughes to Christina, who sat beside her in the
window-seat
. ‘Look how he’s scowling!’

‘He always does in a play,’ replied Christina, and added with a giggle: ‘He’s getting into the skin of his part.’

W
ETHERBY’S
Pavilion had put sixpence on the rates, and all citizens of substance had
therefore
a strong motive for regarding it as an amenity. To patronise the Pavilion Café, especially during the morning, had become a matter of principle.

In the old days the morning rendezvous had been the Mandalay in Market Street. There a dark and stuffy labyrinth of small, low-ceilinged rooms, smelling strongly of coffee, and lit by rose-coloured lamps, had provided a background for the natural pattern of local society. Friends forgathered, lovers trysted, news was exchanged and plans were hatched, in twenty secluded corners. Much went on, and not all of it was laid bare immediately. The first news of pregnancies was whispered over these coffee tables, and so, in oblique murmurs, was the truth about fatal diseases. It was to the Mandalay that invalids and the bereaved first
ventured
, on the return of health or spirits. To be seen there, to be welcomed, was a signal of recovery.

In that narcotic atmosphere there were more
reconciliations
than quarrels. Scandals were doubtless born and circulated, but, at certain tables where the kindest hearts presided, spiteful rumours were frequently
contradicted
, denounced and slain. For the Mandalay had its natural rulers, unelected and unappointed, as are the rulers in all truly free communities. What some thought mattered more than what others thought. This was as inevitable as the weather and there was as little appeal
against it. Character was recognised and received deference.

The Pavilion Café was less kind to human needs. Nobody could creep into it or hide in a corner. Nothing could be arranged in a whisper. All that went on was instantly revealed. Patrons seemed to lose identity and stature as soon as they came into that large, light place. Sitting uneasily round the steel tables, their shopping bags beside them, they looked disconcertingly like the women in a sketch which Wetherby had submitted when the plans for the Pavilion were first under
dis-discussion
. They had enjoyed a good laugh over this sketch, which substituted blank pink eggs for faces; but it had proved prophetic. The eager eyes, the sharp noses, the pugnacious chins, which had clustered round the Mandalay lamps, were all fused into a featureless uniformity by Wetherby’s great north window.

Here there were no leaders. Everybody was as much reduced, diminished, dwarfed, drained of life, as
everybody
else. Only Martha Rawson, who always had a special table reserved for her, maintained a kind of individuality.

Sunshine and shadow scudded over the dancing waves outside. It was a restless place, too lofty, too bare, too much exposed to distant prospects of sky and water. A perpetual shrill chatter washed through it, mingled with faint sea music, and the cries of gulls. The steel chairs were not as comfortable as the Mandalay wicker, nor was the coffee particularly good. Sometimes they felt a vague sense of loss as they sat there, hooting at one another. But they did not clearly understand what had been done to them.

Alan Wetherby might be a brilliant architect, but he preferred his buildings to be empty. The intrusion of
humanity was always, to him, a pity. He could never quite stomach the notion of worshippers in his cathedrals, audiences in his theatres, or families in his flats. He made no bones about his dislike for the human race; but it had, as yet, occurred to nobody that the designs of a
misanthrope
might exert a malign influence. Only the older women whispered occasionally that there had been more going on at the old Mandalay. They felt that the tide of life in this wonderful Pavilion of theirs was weak and aimless, compared with the strong, secret currents that they had known. A few heretics there were who asserted that the Pavilion did no good to the town. Nobody had actually gone so far as to say that it did harm, for nobody had taken Wetherby’s faceless citizens seriously.

‘There’s that man!’ said Martha to Don, soon after they had arrived at their table on Tuesday morning.

‘Take no notice,’ he advised. ‘We don’t want him coming over here.’

‘I should think not!’

‘He is coming, though.’

‘Intolerable! Nobody could have been more snubbing than I was when he rang up last night.’

‘I’m afraid he’s the type you can’t snub.’

Archer’s appearance on Sunday night had taken them by surprise at a moment when they were already
confused
. They had not acted quickly enough. The party seemed to go better after his arrival. Everybody had begun to talk and laugh, at what they could not now remember. They felt that some great disaster had been averted. It was not until Monday morning that the truth dawned upon them. Don had been indisposed all day, and Martha’s headache had prevented her from going up to Summersdown for news of Conrad. In the
sick, sober light of day they began to ask themselves why Archer had turned up like this and why, in disregard of all decency, he had insisted upon presiding at
Conrad
’s party.

The answer was not hard to discover. He had not come, as they first conjectured, in search of Elizabeth. In spite of what had happened, he meant to reassert his claim on Conrad, and to become once more the sole vendor of Swanns. Two years ago he had doubtless believed himself to be indispensable, and had expected his former friend to collapse without his good offices. The Venice award, and other indications of a waxing reputation, had taught him his mistake. Conrad was a valuable asset. So he had come to oust the Rawsons, to rob them of the fruits of patronage, by some blackmailing measures best known to himself. Conrad’s absence must have been a severe blow to him and he should be sent about his business, if possible, before Conrad came back.

They did their best to ignore his approach, but the unsnubbable creature came right up to their table, pulled out a chair, and sat down upon it.

‘I thought …’ began Martha.

‘Sorry to intrude,’ he said. ‘But I’m off at midday and I must see you before I go. They told me I’d find you here.’

Martha looked at Don, mutely commanding him to do something. He avoided her eye. He was not a man of action. A waitress hurried up to take Archer’s order. The Rawson table always got prompt service.

‘This gentleman,’ stated Martha, ‘is not at my table.’

‘That’s all right, Gertie,’ said Archer. ‘I’ll order later.’

Don was forced to assert himself. He rapped out:

‘We have nothing to say to you. Nothing at all.’

‘Sorry to hear that. However … I’ve something to say to you. This Apollo. It should have gone to Gressington this week. But now he’s gone away …’

‘We will see that it goes,’ interrupted Martha. ‘You needn’t trouble yourself about that, Mr.… Mr.… er … er …’

‘Archer’s the name. I think you know all about me. My point is this; it’s not going to Gressington. I went up there myself, yesterday afternoon, and had a look at it. It was in the shed all right … and I don’t think it should go.’

‘I fail to see what say you have in the matter,’
exclaimed
Martha.

‘I’ve Swann’s authority. He wrote to me. You can read his letter. I think you’ll allow it gives me the right to decide.’

‘I very much doubt it, Mr. Archer. We are Mr. Swann’s most intimate friends, and he has complete confidence in us.’

‘Why do you think it shouldn’t go?’ asked Don.

Martha frowned. He ought not to have asked that, as though Archer’s opinion merited any attention.

‘It’s no good,’ muttered Archer gloomily.

‘That may be a matter of opinion,’ she told him. ‘I don’t think that your disapprobation need prevent it from going to Gressington.’

‘You’d better read his letter to me.’

‘I think, perhaps, that might be as well.’

‘In that case, may I have my coffee?’

Martha signalled to the waitress. Archer produced Conrad’s letter and blandly offered it to Don, from whom Martha immediately snatched it.

‘Oh!’ she cried.

This exclamation was wrung from her by the address at the top of the paper. She flushed angrily. Conrad might be a genius but he was no gentleman. She had maintained him, and his wretched family, for two years. She had bullied several people into buying his work. She had pushed him into entering for the Gressington competition. And what did he do? He stole her
notepaper
and wrote a treacherous letter upon it, a letter which demolished her right to be called his most intimate friend. Her own notepaper, she kept thinking as she read the letter, and not a word about herself from beginning to end!

Archer sipped his coffee, over which he made a face. A good many people were covertly staring at him.
Somebody
who had been at the party recognised him. The story crept from table to table: this was the husband.

‘Conrad wasn’t … himself when he wrote this,’ cried Martha, slapping down the letter. ‘I shall take no notice of it.’

‘Do I read it?’ asked Don plaintively.

She pushed it across the table and continued:

‘He would never have written it if he had been in his right mind. Therefore I think it gives you no authority. I shall personally see to it that the Apollo does go to Gressington.’

‘I can’t stop that, of course,’ said Archer. ‘But if he doesn’t turn up to speak for himself I shall do my best to see that it’s never exhibited over his name. I shall go there, if necessary. I know the people there. I know the adjudicators. I shall show them this letter and explain the circumstances.’

‘They’ll say he was mad when he wrote that letter.’

‘They’ll say that, anyway, when they see his Apollo. It’s got me seriously rattled about his state of mind.
It’s … it’s … imbecile. That’s all you can say about it. I very nearly took it off and dropped it into the sea.’

‘If you’d done that you could have been prosecuted.’

‘It’s what he’ll do himself when he comes to his senses. It will embarrass them very much at
Gressington
. They’ll jump at the chance to write it off. I’m sure they’ll have headaches enough, with some of the entries they’ll get.’

‘Mr. Archer! I don’t like to have to say this … but you must realise that you are the very last person in the world who ought to interfere in Conrad’s affairs.’

‘Why? Because he pinched my wife, you mean? You think that impairs my judgment of his work?’

‘I think it invalidates your judgment. If you really mean to fulfil these threats, I shall write to Gressington myself and tell them all the facts.’

‘What? About Conrad and Elizabeth? Oh Lord, they know all about that. Everybody knows.’

‘I never could spell yacht myself,’ said Don, handing back the letter.

‘I shall make a public scandal of it,’ declared Martha. ‘I don’t doubt that you are in with these people and can pull strings. But I shall see to it that the facts are widely known. A great work of art shall not be suppressed in this manner.’

‘Work of art my arse!’ exploded Archer, losing his temper. ‘My dear madam, go and look at it! Go and look at it!’

‘I shall form my own opinion. It’s Conrad’s work, and nothing that Conrad does ought to be treated like this.’

Don, who was more shocked at Archer’s language than she was, began to get to his feet.

‘Do you want to be thrown out of here?’ he asked.

‘I don’t,’ said Archer. ‘I’ve got a train to catch.’

His hasty departure was watched with interest throughout the hall.

‘And he didn’t even pay for his coffee!’ cried Don.

‘Winston,’ said Martha. ‘I shall write to Winston Churchill.’

She frequently wrote to people whom she did not know, and commanded their support in her campaigns. Sometimes she actually got it, and the civil refusals which she extracted from the Great were not without their uses, for she could talk about them in an impressive way. Boundless impudence can travel far.

‘Bichette,’ said Don, ‘we’d better face it. He’s too much for us. He’s in with all those people. They’re more likely to listen to him than to us.’

‘And what is he but a dealer! A complete barbarian who ought to be selling … selling television sets.’

‘It’s Conrad’s own fault,’ said Don, a little testily. ‘He ought to have sent that thing off. He shouldn’t have gone away. You worry too much about him.’

‘I’m perfectly certain, now, that he went because he knew that wretch was coming. He must have regretted that letter as soon as he’d posted it, and simply fled.’

‘Maybe. But I don’t think there’s anything we can do.’

‘Posterity,’ said Martha, ‘will think that we ought to have done something. Someday it will be asked why Gressington failed to acquire the Apollo. Why didn’t Conrad’s friends, who were on the spot, do something?’

‘Can’t you get somebody else to buy it?’

She shook her head despondently. All possible
purchasers
of Swanns, among her acquaintance, had already been victimised. East Head was hopelessly philistine. She had been obliged to fight, tooth and nail, to prevent
it from commissioning a portrait of the Mayor, to be paid for out of the War Memorial Surplus Fund. On that committee, as she often told Don, she felt herself to be a voice in the wilderness. A portrait of Sam Dale, to hang in the Town Hall, had been the only proposal so far discussed. Her protests had been overridden and the inquity would have been perpetrated had it not been for Dickie Pattison. He, as legal adviser, had quashed the whole project, upon the grounds that a portrait of Sam Dale would not beautify the town within the meaning of the resolution, passed at a general meeting, which had earmarked the money for that purpose.

Legal advice! she thought, with smouldering
indignation
. That they would take. They would listen to a country bumpkin of a solicitor, while her own eloquence went unheeded. They thought themselves quite capable of beautifying their own town, these butchers and bakers and candlestick-makers. That they should be left to their own devices was outrageous. In a saner world it would not be permitted; they would not be allowed to spend their money without taking the advice of people who
knew
!