The Patrick Melrose Novels (14 page)

‘It wasn't a sacrifice, it was a pleasure,' said Anne innocently. ‘And that reminds me, I've also had the pleasure of bringing back
The Twelve Caesars.
What I mean is that I had the pleasure of reading it and now you have the pleasure of getting it back.'

‘So much pleasure in one day,' said David, letting one of the yellow slippers dangle from his foot.

‘Right,' said Anne. ‘Our cup overfloweth.'

‘I've had a delightful day as well,' said David, ‘there must be magic in the air.'

Nicholas glimpsed an opportunity to join the conversation without provoking David. ‘So what did you think of
The Twelve Caesars
?' he asked Anne.

‘Together they would have made a great jury,' said Anne, ‘if you like your trials fast.' She turned her thumb towards the floor.

David let out an abrupt, ‘Ha,' which showed he was amused. ‘They'd have to take turns,' he said, pointing his thumbs down too.

‘Absolutely,' said Anne. ‘Imagine what would happen if they tried to choose a foreman.'

‘And think of the Imperial Thumbache,' said David, twisting his aching thumbs up and down with childish enjoyment.

This happy vein of fantasy was interrupted by Bridget's return. After talking to Barry on the phone, Bridget had smoked another little joint and the colours around her had become very vivid. ‘
Love
those kinky yellow slippers,' she said to David brightly.

Nicholas winced.

‘Do you really like them?' asked David, fixing her genially. ‘I'm so pleased.'

David knew intuitively that Bridget would be embarrassed by discussing her phone call, but he had no time to interrogate her now because Yvette came in to announce dinner. Never mind, thought David, I can get her later. In the pursuit of knowledge, there was no point in killing the rabbit before one found out whether its eyes were allergic to shampoo, or its skin inflamed by mascara. It was ridiculous to ‘break a butterfly upon a wheel'. The proper instrument for a butterfly was a pin. Stimulated by these consoling thoughts, David rose from his chair and said expansively, ‘Let's have dinner.'

Disturbed by a draught from the opening door, the candles in the dining room flickered and animated the painted panels around the walls. A procession of grateful peasants, much appreciated by David, edged a little further along the twisting road that led to the castle gates, only to slip back again as the flames shifted the other way. The wheels of a cart which had been stuck in a roadside ditch, seemed to creak forward, and for a moment the donkey pulling it swelled with dark new muscles.

On the table Yvette had laid out two bowls of rouille for the fish soup, and a sweating green bottle of Blanc de Blancs stood at either end of the table.

On the way from the drawing room to the dining room, Nicholas made one last attempt to extort some enthusiasm for his beleaguered anecdote. It now took place in the residence of the Prince et Princesse de Quelque Chose. ‘Whoosh!' he shouted at Anne with an explosive gesture. ‘The fifteenth-century tapestries burst into flame and their
hôtel particulier
BURNED TO THE GROUND. The reception had to be cancelled. There was a national scandal, and every bottle of Plantes Marines was banned
worldwide.
'

‘As if it wasn't tough enough already being called Quelque Chose,' said Anne.

‘But now you can't get it anywhere,' cried Nicholas, exhausted by his efforts.

‘Sounds like the right decision. I mean, who wants their peculiar hotel burnt to the ground? Not me!'

Everyone waited to be seated and looked enquiringly at Eleanor. Although-there seemed to be no room for doubt, with the women next to David and the men next to her and the couples mixed, she felt a dreadful conviction that she would make a mistake and unleash David's fury. Flustered, she stood there saying, ‘Anne … would you … no, you go there … no, I'm sorry…'

‘Thank God we're only six,' David said in a loud whisper to Nicholas. ‘There's some chance she'll crack the problem before the soup gets cold.' Nicholas smirked obediently.

God, I hate grown-up dinner parties, thought Bridget, as Yvette brought in the steaming soup.

‘Tell me, my dear, what did you make of the Emperor Galba?' said David to Anne, leaning courteously towards her, to emphasize his indifference to Bridget.

This was the line that Anne had hoped the conversation would not take. Who? she thought, but said, ‘Ah, what a character! What
really
interested me, though, was the character of Caligula. Why do you think he was so obsessed with his sisters?'

‘Well, you know what they say,' David grinned, ‘vice is nice, but incest is best.'

‘But what…' asked Anne, pretending to be fascinated, ‘what's the psychology of a situation like that? Was it a kind of narcissism? The nearest thing to seducing himself?'

‘More, I think, the conviction that only a member of his own family could have suffered as he had done. You know, of course, that Tiberius killed almost all of their relations, and so he and Drusilla were survivors of the same terror. Only she could really understand him.'

As David paused to drink some wine, Anne resumed her impersonation of an eager student. ‘Something else I'd love to know is why Caligula thought that torturing his wife would reveal the reason he was so devoted to her?'

‘To discover witchcraft was the official explanation, but presumably he was suspicious of affection which was divorced from the threat of death.'

‘And, on a larger scale, he had the same suspicion about Roman people. Right?' asked Anne.

‘Up to a point, Lord Copper,' said David. He looked as if there were things he knew, but would never divulge. So these were the benefits of a classical education, thought Anne, who had often heard David and Victor talk about them.

Victor had been eating his soup silently and very fast while Nicholas told him about Jonathan Croyden's memorial service. Eleanor had abandoned her soup and lit a cigarette; the extra Dexedrine had put her off her food. Bridget daydreamed resolutely.

‘I'm afraid I don't approve of memorial services,' said Victor, pursing his lips for a moment to savour the insincerity of what he was about to say, ‘they are just excuses for a party.'

‘What's wrong with them,' David corrected him, ‘is that they are excuses for such bad parties. I suppose you were talking about Croyden.'

‘That's right,' said Victor. ‘They say he spoke better than he wrote. There was certainly room for improvement.'

David bared his teeth to acknowledge this little malice. ‘Did Nicholas tell you that your friend Vijay was there?'

‘No,' said Victor.

‘Oh,' said David, turning to Anne persuasively, ‘and you never told us why he left so suddenly.' Anne had refused to answer this question on several occasions, and David liked to tease her by bringing it up whenever they met.

‘Didn't I?' said Anne, playing along.

‘He wasn't incontinent?' asked David.

‘No,' said Anne.

‘Or worse, in his case, flirtatious?'

‘Absolutely not.'

‘He was just being himself,' Nicholas suggested.

‘That might have done it,' said Anne, ‘but it was more than that.'

‘The desire to pass on information is like a hunger, and sometimes it is the curiosity, sometimes the indifference, of others that arouses it,' said Victor pompously.

‘OK, OK,' said Anne, to save Victor from the silence that might well follow his pronouncement. ‘Now it's not going to seem like that big a deal to you sophisticated types,' she added demurely. ‘But when I took a clean shirt of his up to his room, I found a bunch of terrible magazines. Not just pornography, much much worse. Of course I wasn't going to ask him to leave. What he reads is his own affair, but he came back and was so rude about my being in his room, when I was only there to take back his lousy shirt, that I kind of lost my temper.'

‘Good for you,' said Eleanor timidly.

‘What sort of magazines exactly?' asked Nicholas, sitting back and crossing his legs.

‘I wish you'd confiscated them,' giggled Bridget.

‘Oh, just awful,' said Anne. ‘Crucifixion. All kinds of animal stuff.'

‘God, how hilarious,' said Nicholas. ‘Vijay rises in my estimation.'

‘Oh, yeah?' said Anne. ‘Well, you should have seen the look on the poor pig's face.'

Victor was a little uneasy. ‘The obscure ethics of our relations to the animal kingdom,' he chuckled.

‘We kill them when we feel like it,' said David crisply, ‘nothing very obscure about that.'

‘Ethics is not the study of what we do, my dear David, but what we ought to do,' said Victor.

‘That's why it's such a waste of time, old boy,' said Nicholas cheerfully.

‘Why do you think it's superior to be amoral?' Anne asked Nicholas.

‘It's not a question of being superior,' he said, exposing his cavernous nostrils to Anne, ‘it just springs from a desire not to be a bore or a prig.'

‘Everything about Nicholas is superior,' said David, ‘and even if he
were
a bore or a prig, I'm sure he would be a superior one.'

‘Thank you, David,' said Nicholas with determined complacency.

‘Only in the English language,' said Victor, ‘can one be “a bore”, like being a lawyer or a pastry cook, making boredom into a profession – in other languages a person is simply boring, a temporary state of affairs. The question is, I suppose, whether this points to a greater intolerance towards boring people, or an especially intense quality of boredom among the English.'

It's because you're such a bunch of boring old farts, thought Bridget.

Yvette took away the soup plates and closed the door behind her. The candles flickered, and the painted peasants came alive again for a moment.

‘What one aims for,' said David, ‘is ennui.'

‘Of course,' said Anne, ‘it's more than just French for our old friend boredom. It's boredom plus money, or boredom plus arrogance. It's I-find-everything-boring, therefore I'm fascinating. But it doesn't seem to occur to people that you can't have a world picture and then not be part of it.'

There was a moment of silence while Yvette came back carrying a large platter of roast veal and vegetables.

‘Darling,' said David to Eleanor, ‘what a marvellous memory you have to be able to duplicate the dinner you gave Anne and Victor last time they were here.'

‘Oh, God, how awful,' said Eleanor. ‘I'm so sorry.'

‘Talking of animal ethics,' said Nicholas, ‘I gather that Gerald Frogmore shot more birds last year than anyone in England. Not bad for a chap in a wheelchair.'

‘Maybe he doesn't like to see things move about freely,' said Anne. She immediately felt the excitement of half wishing she had not made this remark.

‘You're not anti-blood sports?' asked Nicholas, with an unspoken ‘on top of everything else'.

‘How could I be?' asked Anne. ‘It's a middle-class prejudice based on envy. Have I got that right?'

‘Well, I wasn't going to say so,' said Nicholas, ‘but you put it so much better than I could possibly hope to…'

‘Do you despise people from the middle classes?' Anne asked.

‘I don't despise people
from
the middle classes, on the contrary, the further from them, the better,' said Nicholas, shooting one of his cuffs. ‘It's people
in
the middle classes that disgust me.'

‘Can middle-class people be from the middle class in your sense?'

‘Oh, yes,' said Nicholas generously, ‘Victor is an outstanding case.'

Victor smiled to show that he was enjoying himself.

‘It's easier for girls, of course,' Nicholas continued. ‘Marriage is such a blessing, hoisting women from dreary backgrounds into a wider world.' He glanced at Bridget. ‘All a chap can really do, unless he's the sort of queer who spends his whole time writing postcards to people who might need a spare man, is to toe the line. And be thoroughly charming and well informed,' he added, with a reassuring smile for Victor.

‘Nicholas, of course, is an expert,' David intervened, ‘having personally raised several women from the gutter.'

‘At considerable expense,' Nicholas agreed.

‘The cost of being dragged into the gutter was even higher, wouldn't you say, Nicholas?' said David, reminding Nicholas of his political humiliation. ‘Either way, the gutter seems to be where you feel at home.'

‘Cor blimey, guv,' said Nicholas in his comical cockney voice. ‘When you've gorn down the drain like wot I 'ave, the gutter looks like a bed o' roses.'

Eleanor still found it inexplicable that the best English manners contained such a high proportion of outright rudeness and gladiatorial combat. She knew that David abused this licence, but she also knew how ‘boring' it was to interfere with the exercise of unkindness. When David reminded someone of their weaknesses and failures she was torn between a desire to save the victim, whose feelings she adopted as her own, and an equally strong desire not to be accused of spoiling a game. The more she thought about this conflict, the more tightly it trapped her. She would never know what to say because whatever she said would be wrong.

Eleanor thought about her stepfather barking at her mother across the wastes of English silver, French furniture, and Chinese vases that helped to prevent him from becoming physically violent. This dwarfish and impotent French duke had dedicated his life to the idea that civilization had died in 1789. He nonetheless accepted a ten per cent cut from the dealers who sold pre-revolutionary antiques to his wife. He had forced Mary to sell her mother's Monets and Bonnards on the ground that they were examples of a decadent art that would never really matter. To him, Mary was the least valuable object in the fastidious museums they inhabited, and when eventually he bullied her to death he felt that he had eliminated the last trace of modernity from his life except, of course, for the enormous income that now came to him from the sales of a dry-cleaning fluid made in Ohio.