The Phoenix Generation (3 page)

Returning to the garden, he saw the steward, in a white jacket, hoisting a duplicate of Piers' flag.

“Isn't it good to think that flags are still used for signalling, as in Nelson's day, Felicity?”

“Yes.”

“Piers' has just been run up.”

Captain Runnymeade said heavily, “We call it a burgee.”

A broad man in white flannel trousers and double-breasted blue jacket with brass buttons, wearing a large cap with a white cover, appeared. He had a gold watch in his hand. The last of the yachts were running up burgees. Sunlight flickered off the waves.

“According to Piers,” went on Runnymeade, “You are a farmer——”

“I
was
learning to be one, Captain Runnymeade.”

“I was about to say that, before you come to the inevitable end of a farmer, like Stephen Leacock—who, no doubt you will remember, in a good year, managed to get his seed back—and resume the pen—may I offer you a drink? Jerry, give Mr.
Maddison
a whisky and soda.” He nodded to himself several times, and turned to Felicity, who was pouring out tea. “You have read O. Henry, of course. It was O. Henry who said, ‘Once a farmer, always a sucker.' Oh, I beg your pardon. What will you drink?”

Phillip gave her a look as much as to say, Beware—this man is an alcoholic. Felicity replied, “I'd love some whisky, if I may, Captain Runnymeade.”

“Good girl.”

The Commodore was staring at the gold hunter watch open on the palm of his left hand. His right arm was raised. The steward, lanyard wrapped round fingers, was watching him. Down went the arm; steward's tug on lanyard,
bang!
the echo rolled.

“I think I'll watch the start,” said Phillip, getting up to go to the quay.

A strong tide was flooding the harbour. The waves had little white tops. Yachts were sailing to and fro, each with its burgee fluttering taut in the wind. Some boats were heeling over as they tacked across the tide. Others were beating up against wind and water, close-hauled. It appeared to be a matter of getting as near as practicable to the starling line, marked by two buoys, before the starter gun. He had observed the synchronising of the captains'
watches with that of the Commodore's before the crews had gone out to the boats.

A man watching told him that any boat that crossed the line before the starting gun would be notified by the running up of its burgee on the flagpole, to recall it.

Feeling mean that he had left Felicity alone to cope with Runnymeade he returned to her saying, “Would you like to see the start? We'll be back, Captain Runnymeade.”

The other man waved a hand. They went to the wall and stood near a telescope on a tripod pointing to the starting line.

“Why did you have that whisky? He's only trying to make you tight.”

“I rather like him,” she replied gaily.

“What were you talking about?”

“Oh, he has heard that the Swannery is likely to become an R.A.F. bombing range, so he is not going to renew the lease of his country house, but move to a cottage he's bought somewhere on the East Coast, where he wants to paint in water-colour. He said I must go and stay with him when he's had the place done up.”

“He's a ram in wolf's clothing, as Dikran Michaelis would say.”

“He's a dear.”

“A father-figure.”

The steward, now in blue jacket with Naval ribbons and small peaked cap under white cover, held the lanyard of the red cannon. His eyes were on the Commodore, who was crouching with an eye against the telescope fixed to the flagpole. Most of the boats were now criss-crossing near the starting line. Some were lagging, sheets at right angles to let slip the wind, while bows pointed on course.

The Commodore began to count.

“Five seconds—four—three—” he raised a hand—“two—one—”

BANG!

One of the boats had crossed the line prematurely. Another gun spoke: up went a burgee to the top of the flagpost. The yacht turned stern to breeze, its boom lifting over with the flapping sail which the helmsman hauled in to lessen the weight of wind as the boom was hurled over. The boat appeared to stagger before it recovered and went fast with the tide until put about; to hang in the wind before plunging after the other boats.

There followed, for Phillip, a tedious time with Captain
Runnymeade. He had to accept a drink since he felt it was expected of him. Then someone mentioned that there was table tennis in the next room. Here he passed an hour with Felicity, playing with his left hand since she was a beginner. While they were sitting down, resting, looking at yachting magazines, the steward came in and said that Captain Runnymeade had left a message that he would be most grateful if they would go over to the Castle that night to help him entertain some old ladies to dinner. Sir Piers Tofield and Miss Templecombe had accepted. The Captain would send his motor to fetch them at eight o'clock, but they were not to hurry, as dinner was at half-past nine.

“I wonder if he thinks we're married?”

“Darling, of course he knows I am your girl friend.”

“Then he'll expect us to sleep together.”

She said happily, “Good. I must telephone Lucy that we won't be back to supper.”

“I wonder why he invited you to stay with him at his cottage? I bet he's a sensual old devil.”

“Most of ‘Boy's' friends are painters, dancers, and writers.”

“You seem on familiar terms with him already.”

“He asked me to call him ‘Boy'.”

“He doesn't look the artistic type.”

“Perhaps he enjoys their company. Everyone isn't sexy, you know.”

“So I'm ‘sexy', am I? I thought I didn't come up to expectations.”

“Darling, I love you.”

“I thought it a bit
outré
when he repeated that bit about O. Henry. He said the same thing to me at the party on Election night.”

After the race, the crews crowded the bar before changing. There was loud talk about points in the race. Phillip began to feel that this was the life. Piers had already put him up for membership. His fear of a social life, in the belief that a writer to be any good must keep apart and live in his own world, was temporarily abated. All was experience! He took his fifth whisky and soda from Piers.

“I rather fancy there will be quite a crowd later on tonight, coining down from London with Stefania Rozwitz, his girl friend.”

“Isn't she one of the Russian ballet?”

“Yes. Runnymeade has the whole company down sometimes,
by special train to Bournemouth, which gets in about half-past twelve.”

“Is that where he lives?”

“His place is west of where we are now, about twenty miles. The Aston usually does it in under the half-hour from here.”

“What time d'you think the party will end?”

“Oh, sometime tomorrow.”

It was getting on for nine o'clock.

“Have you telephoned Lucy yet, Felicity?”

“Oh dear, I'd quite forgotten——”

He pushed past her to the box. Lucy said it was kind of him to have rung up. Billy and Peter were happily asleep in the same bed, everything was all right, and she would expect them when she saw them. When he came back to the bar he saw that Felicity was biting her nails. They were bitten down to the quick. It annoyed him to see them.

*

They arrived at the Castle soon after ten o'clock. Runnymeade saw them briefly, apologised for having to leave them to write letters, and asked Piers to do the honours. After dinner the four went to the billiard room and played slosh. At one corner of the room was an oak door beyond which were stone steps leading down to the cellars—cave after cave lined with bottles. There was no dampness down there, the floors and walls having been rendered with a special kind of waterproof cement, Piers explained.

“He took the Castle on lease after the war. I've no idea where he comes from. I don't think anyone knows, except that he had an American mother who left him a fortune. He told me once that he was with the sixteenth cavalry at Mons, and then went on the staff. What else he did in the war, if anything, I don't know.”

“I tried to talk to him about it at the club, Piers, but all he said was, ‘Who wants to talk about that goddam war?'”

It was midnight. Champagne suspended time. They sat with backs against the wall, glasses in hand. When Runnymeade
reappeared
he was wearing a claret-coloured smoking jacket. “Let us await our guests in the hall,” he said.

A light flashed at the top of the flagpost on the lawn beyond the entrance drive, announcing the convoy passing under the arch of the eastern lodge. At once lights went on in all the rooms and the great oak door, iron-bound and studded, was opened. Two footmen stood by this door, while a red light glowed below the light on the pole. The chamberlain, wearing some sort of brocaded
eighteenth-century coat with black silk knee-breeches and
silver-buckled
shoes, went forward as the tyres of the first motor stopped on the gravel. It was like a film set, Philip thought: the
chamberlain
bowed, in came the guests, led by Stefania Rozwitz dressed in a pale fur toque and coat, gliding towards Runnymeade with arms held out, a dozen young women behind her moving with level movements as though the bodies floated on air. Curtsies were dropped while the ballerina received clasps from a beaming host. The men stood behind them with less assurance, automatically feeling themselves to be in a supporting role.

Last of all, velour hat in hand, came a figure with a moon-face and the eyes of a children's-book owl in spectacles.

“I say, Piers, do introduce me to our host, won't you? I heard you were going to be here. Hullo, Phil. What a pleasure to see you again. And Gillian, my dear, I
am
delighted.”

“And what might be your connexion with the ballet, Mr. Plugge?” asked Runnymeade, when Piers had introduced him.

“Oh, I hire out the chairs to the gallery boys and gels, sir.”

Archie Plugge was soon at home. He praised the ‘simply marvellous' dancing of the ballet as he held a large whisky and soda beside Runnymeade.

They moved into the banqueting hall. There were two enormous flaming hearths at each end. The loftiness below the roof was interrupted by a gallery running around three sides of the hall, up among dark beams and kingposts. On the floor of heavy oak planking stood a refectory table long enough to seat a hundred guests but now looking bare with a mere score or so of places laid amidst a profusion of flowers, candelabra, crystal glass, and gold plate.

“Seat yourselves anywhere,” cried Runnymeade. “We don't stand on ceremony here.”

Even so, the footmen served, the under-butler carved and sliced, the wine went round with dignity. At last the servants left, with the exception of Jerry the valet, who had looked after his master at the Club-house.

“This is a party,” cried Runnymeade, his eyes between glaze and glitter. He had eaten only oysters with whisky and soda. Along the table corks popped. Laughter was continuous.

Phillip sat with Archie Plugge, who explained that he was in partnership with a chap who hired out the collapsible chairs at sixpence a time to people in the queues for the ballet and opera.

“I'm still on
The
Wireless
Times,
old boy, the chairs are a
sideline—literally so, ha-ha. It's a gold mine—fifty per cent pure profit on our outlay.” He went on to say that he had telephoned Piers' home to propose himself for the week-end, but when he found he was not there he rang up Lucy, and since some of the ballet company were going to a party not far from Piers' place, made enquiries and found they were on his doorstep, so to speak.

“Have you seen ‘Le Spectre de la Rose,' Phil? I saw it for the first time tonight. It somehow reminded me of you. Rozwitz was marvellous.”

“Tell me about it, Archie.”

“It's rather the same theme as ‘The Flying Dutchman'. A girl dreams of a lover in the rose she has been given, and her feeling calls up the vision in a material form.”

“Poor girl,” said Phillip, thinking of Felicity.

“I say,” whispered Plugge, confidentially, “What is our host, d'you know?”

“Retired cavalry. Rich American mother.”

Plugge raised his glass towards the head of the table, and then went for the lobster, with a side-glance at the chicken on his neighbour's plate, mentally approving it for the second course.

Felicity sat on one side of Runnymeade, Stefania on the other. ‘Boy' appeared to live in a private world, served by Jerry and an almost colourless Scotch whisky. It was not so much a party, as an assembly of parties. Phillip tossed a roll which fell at the other end of the table, where sat the male dancers in a separate gathering, some talking with feminine voices and gestures. The roll was gracefully tossed back. The host then picked up another roll and hurled it at Phillip.

“Now then, ‘Farm Boy',” he called out. “Come on, pay a dividend! You're a writer. Amuse us. Remember what O. Henry said, ‘Once a farmer, always a sucker.' You haven't said a goddam word all the evening, Maddison. Tell us somethin' amusin'.”

“What sort of thing amuses you, Captain Runnymeade?”

“What does that mean exactly?”

“I haven't quite got your wave-length, but I gather that you're not a sucker.”

“What d'you mean by that?” asked Runnymeade, in a voice suddenly quiet.

“Hush, ‘Boy,' hush,” said Stefania putting a hand on the sleeve of his jacket.

“I meant merely that you're apparently not a farmer yourself. Nor am I—it gave me up.”

Runnymeade sat back, nodding his head to himself. “At any rate, my other friends don't call me a sucker to my face, although they probably think it.”

“Oh no, ‘Boy',” said Stefania. “Don't pretend that you're hurt. You were playing with Farm Boy, now Farm Boy is playing with you.”