Time and Time Again (18 page)

'I haven't the slightest idea,' answered Charles with keen delight, 'and I don't suppose Henri has either. So you put us both in our place. I took my degree in history, and I've never regretted doing so, though I expect I've forgotten ninety per cent of all I ever learned. One does, you know. But the other ten per cent, if well cared for, can stand one in pretty good stead. . . . Thank you, Henri. Oh yes--and a small salade gauloise.' Henri bowed and left them again. 'I'm glad you're interested in history, Gerald. Perhaps it'll win you a Cambridge scholarship next year.'

'I think I shall take Economics.'

'Well, that includes a lot of history--and vice versa. I remember when I was at Cambridge I used to go to Pigou and Keynes--that was at the end of the war which we now call the FIRST World War, though it was Colonel Repington back in 1919 who originated the phrase and was well trounced for it.'

'Did you enjoy Cambridge?'

'Very much indeed. Of course I'm fortunate to have it associated in my mind with pleasant things--such as a First in the Tripos and the Courtenay Prize. I didn't like games and I was too shy in those days to take part in Union debates, but I think I can say that Cambridge gave me, if nothing else, a sense of kinship with tradition--of being privileged, if the metaphor isn't too fanciful, to touch the pulse of five centuries with the tip of one's little finger. I remember what a thrill I got when I found that a previous occupant of my college rooms had introduced the turnip from Holland in the late seventeenth century--thus becoming a benefactor of English agriculture though certainly not of the English dinner-table. . . . Strange, though, when one looks back on early life, how it's the little incidents that stay in the mind. I remember once, while I was researching at the British Museum, being told that the desk I was working at had been used by Karl Marx when he was writing Das Kapital. . . . I mentioned that to Palan the other day, by way of making conversation--'

'Who's Palan?'

Charles had spoken the name without thinking, though now he had done so he felt it did not matter. 'One of my opponents at the Conference. A disciple of Marx, of course.'

'I think I've seen pictures of him in the papers. Rather a jolly- looking fellow.'

'He would certainly never forget to smile when being photographed.'

'What did he say when you told him about the desk at the British Museum?'

'Nothing. He just stopped picking his nose.'

Gerald laughed. 'You've certainly got your knife into him all right.'

'On the contrary, he has his into me. Mine's quite incapable of piercing such a hide. And yet, in an odd sort of way, I don't absolutely DISlike the fellow. It's hard to say why not. I have every reason to--personal, professional, and political. The other evening I was reading Montesquieu and I came across . . .' Charles stopped; he saw that Gerald had glanced covertly beneath the rim of the table at his wristwatch. The fact that the movement had been so carefully shielded, that the boy was clearly anxious not to hurt a father's feelings, gave Charles a needle-like twinge in the centre of his stomach. Was it possible that he was BORING Gerald? He continued hastily: 'But don't let me run on like this. Tell me more about your adventures in Switzerland.'

'Yes, I'd like to, before I--I mean, while there's still time. I mustn't forget my train.'

'When did you say it was?'

'Er . . . ten-thirty . . .'

'And from the Gare St. Lazare, I think you said. Leave here by ten and you'll be all right. . . . You were telling me earlier that you did some climbing.'

'Oh yes--and golf and tennis too. At Mürren they were having tournaments at the hotel and I entered--just to get a game actually-- never thought I had a chance--but I won the mixed doubles--my partner was awfully good. It's a silver cup--I've got it in my bag-- like me to show you?'

Even had Charles been interested in games he would not have cared to interrupt a dinner in such a way. He smiled tolerantly and answered: 'Oh, don't bother now--I'll see it when we're at home. But I'm very glad you were able to get the kind of holiday you enjoy. So many people--diplomats, for instance--have to enjoy the kind they get. When I think of all the time I've spent at horrible little resorts that happened to be the only places where the Legation staff could go to escape the heat, or dysentery, or some national holiday that was sure to be marked by anti-British demonstrations in the capital--'

'You can put all THAT into your book, anyway.'

'Oh, certainly. And I shall. There was a place near Constanza, on the Black Sea . . .'

At ten minutes to ten he called for the bill and excused himself ostensibly to make a telephone call. The only telephone at the Cheval Noir was in Henri's little office at the rear; but Charles did not actually use the instrument. Presently he returned to find Gerald ready to leave and a little fidgety.

'Dad, it's been a wonderful dinner--I've had a grand time.'

'My pleasure too, Gerald. I only wish we could have seen more of Paris together.'

'Yes, so do I.'

'Maybe we'll have some other chance.'

'You bet we will . . . and dad, why don't you stay here and finish your coffee?--I hate to rush you out like this--no need for you to see me off at the train, we'll be meeting again in London so soon.'

'Very thoughtful of you, Gerald. In that case I'll just put you into a cab.'

Charles noted the relief on Gerald's face. It hurt him again, but less so because he was now making plans of his own. He took the boy to the kerb and summoned a taxi from the line of them in the middle of the street. Then he shook hands with his son and gave the driver instructions in very rapid French.

'Bye, dad. Thanks again.'

'Goodbye, my boy. Bon voyage.'

Charles returned to his table and asked Henri to bring him another fine. He felt chastened and also a little unworthy. For the thing he had done instead of telephoning was to look up the timetable and confirm that there was no such thing as a ten-thirty boat train from St. Lazare. And what he had told the driver in rapid French was to return to the restaurant and tell him where he had taken the young man.

* * * * *

Half an hour later Charles was in the same taxi, having ordered the driver rather testily: 'Just take me there--you don't need to describe the place.' Feeling as he did somewhat contaminated by the thought that he was about to spy on his own son, he certainly did not want to cement the treachery by any sort of gossip in advance. Naturally after such a rebuff the driver navigated the streets with added recklessness--the route led along the Boulevard des Capucines, then the Boulevard des Italiens, towards the Place de la République . . . And with every mile Charles wondered what he was going to do when he got to wherever it was, or if he could even do anything at all. For there were circumstances in which Paris was a wonderful city to be fatherless in . . . and at such a speculation Charles had nothing to aid him but certain recollections of his own.

It would probably (he remembered) be one of those dingy buildings with a mansard roof and peeling stucco and an advertisement for Byrrh facing from across the street in huge letters . . . And to think of Gerald at seventeen . . . Why, in his own case he had been twenty-two when he . . . when he spent those six months with the Décharays to polish up his accent. Professor Décharay used to take him and the other students to the Louvre and the museums during the day, but sometimes in the evenings after dinner on the pretext of a lecture a few of them would go off on their own . . . He had often wondered if the good professor had guessed where they went, for he twirled his moustache rather waggishly when they greeted him the next morning at breakfast . . .

And somehow now those adventures, though Charles shrank from the translation of them into the life and times of his son, nevertheless did not give him any equal distaste when they were recalled. Rather the contrary. Too bad one mustn't put that sort of thing into a book--not that he would dream of doing so, even if he could. He wasn't that sort of writer, though he must confess he could sometimes enjoy himself as that sort of reader. Fashions were changing, standards were crumbling, people talked at dinner- tables more freely, one might suppose (though one could hardly be sure), than eminent Victorians in bedrooms, chats on the radio and faces in television were taking the place of spellbinding oratory and the front line of the chorus . . . Perhaps he might devote a chapter in his book to the changing world he had seen--or no, there could be nothing new to say, he had better stick to what was important. The big thing in his career had undoubtedly been the Macedonian Boundary Commission; he must concentrate on that. It was his only title to fame, if any; the rest was just run of the mill. . . .

Charles and Brunon were among the New Year revellers welcoming 1922 at a Rhineland hotel. It was not a good time for painting, but Brunon had a short vacation from school and Charles, after Christmas at Beeching, had been glad to return to the Continent to meet his friend. During a succession of cold and sunny days they walked along the west bank of the Rhine, southward from Bonn. Brunon had visited this fabled territory before and knew of a small village called Assmannshausen, near Bingen, that would be pleasant to stay at, so they had arranged to have mail sent there poste restante. Assmannshausen was reached towards twilight after a flurry of snow from the hills, and Brunon went to the post office while Charles sat in a café reading German papers. There was not much news. More snow was forecast. Francs and marks had fallen further. The Washington Armaments Conference was still in progress. Charles felt drowsy in the warmth after the icy air outside. He also felt very fit and reasonably content. It had been a good idea, taking a walking tour in January. Eccentric but invigorating. Brunon came in with a batch of letters and sorted them out on the scrubbed table top. There was a sprinkling of fresh snow on his coat and his face was pink from the wind. None of Charles's letters looked important and he was putting them aside to read later when one slipped to the floor. As he picked it up he did not recognize the handwriting under Cobb's heavy crossing-out, but the postmark 'Linstead' caught his eye.

After a moment Brunon said: 'Not bad news, I hope?'

'Not tragic, anyway . . . A girl I know got engaged to somebody else.'

Charles was pretending to reread, but actually looking for a miracle to make it all untrue. There was no miracle, and presently Brunon asked: 'Is it going to bother you much?'

'I don't know--quite--yet--but I don't think so.'

It was true that at the first moment of shock he didn't know. He hadn't thought of Lily a great deal, consciously, during the trip. Nor during Christmas at Beeching, nor during previous weeks in Berlin, where he had been fraternising pleasantly with the German language and with the family of Professor Stapff. The separation, so hard to endure at first, had become something he was austerely used to, something he could almost fold to himself for perverse comfort; and the anticipation of seeing her again, which had been all there was to live on during summer and early autumn, had fallen into place along a quiet horizon of the future. But now, with her letter in his hand, the horizon darkened and a sense of loss brought such misery that he could hardly force himself to think, much less to talk rationally to Brunon about any other matter. A snowstorm began that evening, practically marooning them for several days at a small inn. There was nothing to do and because he was utterly wretched Charles told Brunon the opposite of what he felt in the hope that by having to suit his behaviour to it he might achieve some degree of self-discipline.

'Matter of fact, André, it's probably just as well.' Even while he spoke the words he felt a betrayer, though what could he now betray?

'Were you engaged?'

'Not exactly. She was sixteen when we first met and that was less than a year ago. Absurdly young. Sweet though. A typist in an office.'

'Anything wrong with being a typist in an office?'

'Of course not. I didn't intend to suggest--'

'But since you volunteer the information, is it not implied that the match would not be in all ways a suitable one?'

'I daresay the snobbish view might be that--for what it's worth. But otherwise--'

'And in your chosen profession it is worth a great deal. So you are perhaps fortunate to have been given such an easy escape.'

'You think so? . . . Oh, hell, let's have a bottle of wine--I'll bet the local stuff's good here.'

'It is excellent. But tell me, Charles--and then we will not speak of her again unless you wish--I suppose it is because I paint that I like to visualize . . . was she BEAUTIFUL?'

'WAS she? You mean, IS she--she's not dead just because someone else has her. . . . No, not specially beautiful, but . . . you want a description? Let me see . . . she has large violet eyes and a wide forehead and dark brown hair, complexion rather pale and a straight nose that seems somehow long because it isn't big . . . And there's a gap between one upper tooth and the next, on the left side--a tiny gap that looks better than if it weren't there--it shows when she smiles and she smiles a lot because she's generally happy . . . And she has small hands and feet--in fact, she's little altogether--incredibly little--practically no figure to speak of--'

'But at sixteen, my friend . . .'

Charles stamped angrily from his chair, then turned the anger against himself and the movement into a stretch and a yawn. He began to laugh in a ribald way. It seemed the final Judas touch, but having accomplished it he felt better able to compose, as he would have to, the necessary letter of congratulation . . . hoping she and Reg would be happy. He hadn't much doubt about it.

* * * * *

Decades later, when he began to think he would one day write a book, 1922 was the year at which he decided to start the story of his life, because it was the year in which his career opened with quite a spurt of success. After spending six months in Europe polishing his languages, he did very well in the Foreign Office examination, and when, about the same time, he won the Courtenay Prize for History it seemed possible that he was one of those young men for whom all ways are to be made smooth. His first chief, Sir Lionel Treves, at whose Legation in one of the smaller European capitals he presently became an Attaché, thought highly of him, and Lady Treves liked his looks and was considerably intrigued by his manner. Neither had known him before, so they were unaware of how much he had changed. They thought he was far too quiet, but such a fault promised well in a youth whose appearance and ability were both beyond reproach.