“As I walked away from Swallow Haven and slowly crossed the gloomy village, I now understood why my father could not find a way to work with Lascelles. No matter how skilled a lawyer he might be, or how adept he was in the kind of social settings that my father found vexing, Lascelles was not an honourable man, and try as I might, I failed to understand why my father, who was a generally perceptive individual, had tolerated this partnership for so long.”
Lancey suddenly stopped speaking and lowered his eyes. “I’m sorry, but since childhood there has always existed some estrangement between myself and my father, and I suppose I am still trying to understand this rift. But clearly I should never have sought out Lascelles.” He paused, and once again looked up at her. “What’s more, I’m afraid that my mother’s recently developed bouts of anger and impatience are issues that I am also still trying to come to terms with.” He shook his head and once again cast his mind back. “Later that same night I sat in the kitchen with my mother. The servants had long ago been dismissed for the evening, and it seemed unnecessary to ask the resident housekeeper to run upstairs to lay a fire in the drawing room while there was still adequate heat in the kitchen. I confessed to my mother that I had called upon Norman Lascelles. Mother looked exasperated, and would not meet my eyes. ‘Despite the awful row between the two men, your Aunt Hen never said a word against her husband.’ She paused and her voice dropped to a bemused whisper. ‘I’ll go to my grave not understanding her. Once upon a time I believed such behaviour, such loyalty, to be virtuous.’ Then Mother fell silent, and her attention appeared to be seized by the undisturbed surface of her brandy. I knew full well that the only other words she would utter would be ‘Good night,’ and that the words would only fall from her lips when she determined that she was good and ready.”
Again Lancey turned and stared plaintively at the restaurant door. It was becoming clear that Cousin Julian had changed his mind, and so in an effort to spare Lancey the inconvenience of admitting that he had been deserted, she picked up a menu from the tabletop.
“Perhaps we should order?”
“Yes, of course. You’re absolutely right.”
She looked at Lancey, who began to scan the menu, and although she could see that her gentleman’s eyes were fixed on the card, it was clear that poor Lancey’s mind was elsewhere.
27
Discretion
Eventually she learned to fall asleep beside Lancey, but never in his arms. She would lie next to him on her back and remain as stiff as a corpse, for she sensed that Lancey preferred the formality of uncoupled distance, and the gap seemed an apt conclusion to their judicious lovemaking. After a short while, she would inevitably discover herself dreaming some variation on the same familiar shards of memory. Home. Always home, and a succession of troubling images, all of which involved her walking hand in hand with her increasingly distracted father through thick tropical forest, or beside a tumbling river, or towards a place they never seemed to reach. At some point in the night she would turn over onto her side, but when she felt the morning light striking her face, she knew that she should now dress quickly and leave Charles Street before Lancey’s manservant arrived at the house.
As she stepped down onto the pavement, she would routinely chance upon the dawn patrol of silent men in rubber boots who efficiently hosed down the streets while scorning all passing strangers. She generally liked to stroll without any destination in mind before the city became impossibly busy with the bedlam of a new day, but this morning, when she attempted to cross the broad expanse of Piccadilly in order to better witness Green Park emerging as the mist cleared, she was nearly run over by a motorcar whose driver seemed disinclined to slow down even though she was sure that the fellow had seen her. She instantly stepped back, and a burly labourer touched her arm. “Oi, you’d best watch what you’re doing.” She stared into the distance after the automobile. The man spoke again, this time with more sensitivity in his voice. “Well, love, you crossing to the other side or not?” She looked at the inquisitive lout and unsealed her lips to thank him, but there was something about his aspect that made her uneasy, so she gave the man her back and moved off towards her bus stop.
Lancey had recently established her in a larger set of rooms in Chalk Farm, but she found both the flat and the neighbourhood drab and uninspiring. Having safely returned to her new abode, she sat in the dismal living room and stared out through the window at the incongruous cherry blossom tree and wondered if she would ever see it flower. There were weekly singing lessons, which Lancey paid for, and the occasional audition that out of habit she felt obliged to attend, but in the main she played the role of a girl who waited patiently until she was summoned and who, sometime later, left silently before her beau opened his eyes and was forced to confront the tactlessness of her presence. Of course, only her heart prevented her from spurning this role altogether, but what she truly desired was more visibility. Sitting alone in this unfamiliar part of London, she felt embarrassed, and it troubled her that some distance appeared to have developed between herself and Mabel. Her friend seldom wrote to her, and on the one occasion that Mabel had bothered to stir herself to get on the bus to Chalk Farm, they sat together uncomfortably, the pair of them seemingly determined to steer the conversation away from any topic related to Lancey, whom Mabel appeared to have taken against. This wasn’t the same tittle-tattle Mabel of old, and she couldn’t help feeling that by agreeing to this arrangement with Lancey she had somehow let her friend down. However, unless Mabel took the trouble to help her understand what, if anything, she had done to cause offence, then she would have to remain mired in a state of confusion, for there was nobody else to whom she might turn for an explanation, as Ethel was away on a twenty-week tour of Australia, with four weeks in India. Unlike herself, Ethel was busy; unlike herself, Ethel had not stooped to love and thereafter found herself sitting idly about waiting for a man to whisper kind words in her ears as he unfolded his wallet.
28
Less of a Man
Earlier in the evening, after the departure of his manservant, and during the quiet time when they usually sat together in the drawing room, he asked about her father. However, the abruptness of her answer (“He’s dead”) caused him to look across at her and then, not wishing to cause any upset, avert his eyes and decide not to ask anything further. Sadly, he knew full well that his own father would have regarded the girl as a “mongrel” who could never be part of their world and who therefore did not deserve his son’s time or attention. After a fitting period of silence, he coughed quietly in an attempt to break the tension, and then he relit his cigar. “When my own father returned from South Africa he informed my mother that he would collect me from school, even though my mother insisted that it had been arranged that, as usual, one of the servants would be travelling to Eton to escort both myself and my trunk home. However, my father would have none of it, and one snowy December morning after breakfast I discovered him lurking furtively in the hallway outside my rooms with a black felt hat in one hand, while with the other hand he was adjusting his Gladstone collar, which was fastened by a simple gold stud. When he finished we shook hands rather stiffly, and then he said we must hurry, for he had promised Mother that we would return home in time for a family dinner.
“As the carriage proceeded to move off towards the train station, the snow began to fall with increasing vigour and thicken around the wheels, which naturally enough caused us to slow down. Father speculated that the train might well be late, but even so, at this pace we were sure to miss the connection. Suddenly the carriage drew to a halt, and the driver dismounted and opened the door so that the swirling snow blew in on us. He pointed a short distance up the road and announced that a tree was down and blocking our path. According to the driver, if we doubled back and took the side road we might still catch the train, but the man seemed to think it best to stay put, for he deemed it quite likely that the potholed side road would also be impassable. The driver let my father kn
ow that in such conditions it was customary for the local farmer to hitch up a pair of horses to a cart and venture out in search of those in distress. The man was confident that help would soon arrive and the tree would be cleared from the road, but ‘soon’ was never going to be good enough for my father. He shouted impatiently to the driver that we should try the side road and so, after a momentary pause in which the man obviously determined that it was pointless to say anything further to my father, we unhurriedly turned and made our way through the snow in search of the alternative route.
“Some few minutes later we skidded off the icy side road, narrowly avoiding a frozen pond. As we eventually came to rest in a ravine of a ditch, I heard the axle break. Father didn’t say anything, but I knew that he was no longer absorbed by thoughts of the train, or how we might keep warm, or who might discover us; his entire thoughts were with Mother and her inevitable displeasure when she realized that we had not arrived home for dinner.” Lancey paused and refilled his glass. “Truly, I am not sure why I am telling you this. For the best part of his life my father was an admirably cautious man, but at times he was possessed of an impulsiveness that I have spent my life running from. Does this make me less of a man? A coward, perhaps?” He waited, as though half-expecting her to answer, but she said nothing. “As you know, Father died a little over two years ago, so I think I feel something of your loss. In fact, not a day goes by when I don’t think of him, but I wish I were in possession of more palatable memories to help counterbalance the distressing ones.” He laughed uneasily. “You know, I caught a dreadful cold that night, and spent most of the Christmas hols in bed coughing and spluttering. If I remember correctly, the doctor had to be called out when my fever soared, but Father never expressed any regret. It was nearly dark by the time we were rescued, and we spent that particular night at the Station Hotel, an extremely ugly brick monstrosity where a platoon of similarly marooned patrons ate and drank cheerlessly before sloping off to the games room to indulge themselves with tedious hands of bridge or frames of billiards before retiring to their rooms. I remember looking out of the uncurtained window at the snowflakes, which had once again begun to swirl and eddy according to the whimsy of the wind. My still fully clothed father lay back on his bed, and just before I drifted off to sleep I watched him take a silver pin and set about cleaning out his pipe before turning to me and proposing what I hoped he wouldn’t propose. He suggested a different story that we might tell Mother. One that didn’t involve an alternative route. ‘Lancelot,’ he said, for he never called me by my nursery name. ‘Even as we speak, your poor mother will be standing by the door in her button boots and with her winter hat clamped to her head, ready to hasten out into the night and greet us on our return.’ The essence of the tale was to be truthful: snow, a broken axle, the driver trudging for miles on our behalf, an interminable wait, bitter cold, eventual rescue, and then a shared room in an unsuitable hotel. But we agreed that no alternative route had been taken; there had been no mistake. None whatsoever.” Lancey laughed quietly as he relit his cigar, but he avoided eye contact. “No alternative route. What do you make of that?”
29
Men with Pencil-Thin Moustaches
The light and airy dining room is empty except for the solemn-looking man by the window who keeps glancing in her direction and smiling. She is sure that he must be a resident of the hotel, for he has about him a peculiar unencumbered aura. The waiter hovers in silence by the door, longing for one of them to finish so that he might clear away their plates; however, she takes her time with her bowl of soup. She feels vulnerable dining alone, but Lancey had warned her that his business affairs might delay him, and he had instructed her that after a half-hour she should begin without him. The waiter moves towards the man who, having finished his lunch, now rises from his seat and begins to approach her table. He wears a pencil-thin moustache that she imagines to be the custom of an earlier period, and he is dressed somewhat formally, even for an establishment such as this one. “May I join you?” He nods his head slightly as he speaks, and she gestures with an upturned palm indicating that she would have no objection to his taking the seat opposite her. As he introduces himself, she can see the waiter looking in her direction as he begins now to clear the man’s table. Unfortunately, it is not possible for her to discern if she is being warned of impending danger or if the waiter is merely curious to see how this encounter might develop. As the now-seated man continues to speak, she watches his mouth move and understands that Mr. Fresh is eagerly telling her all about himself.
The man asks her again if she has ever been to Canada, and again she tells him, “No, I have never been to Canada.” He continues to talk, informing her that he is waiting for the first ship to take him home to Canada, for he has a sick father he would very much like to see before it is too late. The man pauses and wonders aloud if he is being anti-British wishing to flee the country for purely personal reasons. “Mind you, despite all the talk, a full-scale conflict seems highly unlikely, don’t you think?” Without waiting for her to respond, he convinces himself that he is doing the right thing, and then he confesses that Britain makes him feel a little trapped. But really, what does this man know about feeling “trapped”? She speculates as to what might have delayed Lancey, and in her mind she begins to rehearse a sharp, entirely undeliverable sentence with which to greet him. Meanwhile, her uninvited raconteur continues to talk about himself. It is only now that she notices that the man has a bread crumb lodged in his moustache, which has the effect of making him appear foolish, but she understands that it would not be politic of her to alert him to this fact.
30
A Disappointment
After nearly two weeks of silence, he sent her a telegram inviting her to meet with him at Simpson’s for afternoon tea. When she arrived at the door to the dining room, the manager gestured towards the table in the far corner, and it was then that she saw Lancey seated with an implacable-looking older lady. Of course, she knew immediately who this must be, and so she composed herself and allowed a liveried young man to marshal her across the full expanse of the restaurant floor. Lancey rose from his seat and introduced her to his mother, whose lizard eyes had not left her from the moment she had entered the room. She stared at the large stones on the woman’s slender fingers, and in this instant felt as though there was something terribly illicit about her own waiflike presence in the world. Who, the woman wanted to know, were her people, and from where exactly did she originate? Lancey’s mother managed to fire off these and other equally intrusive questions before the woman eventually succumbed to what was evidently boredom and decided to order tea. Feeling humiliated, she looked hard at the menu and wondered why Lancey had established this audition knowing, as he surely must have, that she would fail. Why deprive her of the opportunity to prepare herself?
She had no memory of eating any crumpets or smoked salmon sandwiches, or sampling the wide selection of scones and cakes. She remembers being aware that Lancey’s mother was attempting to disguise her flaccid neck by appropriating a high collar, and then the woman resumed the conversation and occasionally asked if she knew this person, or that person, but she was clearly a disappointment, for she knew nobody. As the older woman’s skepticism deepened, the questions once again began to dry up and Lancey made no effort to rescue her from the situation. After a second cup of tea, his mother quietly folded her hands together, which was Lancey’s prompt to spring into action and assist the clearly dissatisfied woman to her feet. The older woman bade her son’s acquaintance a pleasant farewell, and she watched as Lancey escorted the grande dame from the dining room. She sat for a moment with a solitary glass of ice water for company, but she had no desire to either disturb the skin of the water or stimulate a gentle tinkling of the ice. It was unclear whether Lancey intended to return, but when it became apparent that the eyes of the other diners were now trained upon her solitary presence, she took a deep breath, gathered up her few belongings, and prepared to quietly depart t
he grandly ornate room.
31
A Serpent in the Bed
A week or so into the new year, Lancey finally contacted her and sent word that his driver would call for her, as he had made a reservation at a new restaurant in Piccadilly named Marco’s. Once she arrived at the restaurant, she discovered Lancey on the pavement nervously smoking a cigarette, which he quickly stubbed out without either complimenting her on her appearance or wishing her a Happy New Year. “Shall we enter?” They were summarily greeted by a hireling in a top hat who held open the heavy, oversized mahogany door for them to pass through. Once inside, Marco himself welcomed them, attired in a plum-coloured suit with an astutely contrasting lilac silk handkerchief flamboyantly stuffed into his breast pocket. Lithe and olive-skinned, Marco had white hair and thin wire glasses which made him appear older than he was; however, the proprietor successfully exuded both flair and gravitas in equal measure. The host made a performance out of addressing Lancey by name, and then taking her own hand and lightly kissing it. “Please,” he said as he led them past a fountain and into the candlelit interior of the restaurant, where he offered them a table with a clear view of the full splendour of the establishment. Once they were comfortably seated, Marco bowed slightly, then stepped back from the table. “My dear friends, I am at your service.”
A View of the Empire at Sunset Page 12