by Xan Brooks
“I do not care for it one iota,” Julius Boswell thunders in return. “I do not see a working man. What I see before me is a dangerous Red.”
The performance has been deemed to be of such importance that the master of the house has been coaxed from his bed. Lord Hertford is enthroned in an armchair, a blanket over his knees, his noble head tottering aboard a sinewy neck. This is the first time Lucy has laid eyes on the man. He has unkempt yellow hair and a pinkish, unhealthy cast to his skin. He puts her in mind of a venerable pet hare, twitchy and unfocused; the poor creature made so irascible by a combination of old age and coddling that the children are advised not to stroke him because he would in all likelihood bite.
Cross-legged on the floor at his feet sits his daughter, Clarissa. Her skirt has rucked and ridden to reveal her garters and her limbs glow golden in the banked firelight. Lined shoulder-to-shoulder on the adjacent sofa, Sweetpea Long, Arthur Elms and Truman Truman-Jones are ostensibly transfixed by the urgent drama unfolding – yet they each take turns to shoot darting, hungry glances at the woman on the floor.
The butler waves the girls to a pair of footstools. A silver platter glides by at eye level. Lucy has time to pinch a nostril and take a polite sniff before it moves off again on its tour of the room.
She watches the play. It is extremely exciting. Julius Boswell clears a frog from his throat and says, “If you persist with this course of action, it goes without saying that it spells ruin for all. The factory floor stands empty. The production line does not move and the workers won’t eat. And how does that serve your Bolshevik revolution?”
Fortnum-Hyde scowls at his paper. He says, “That is where you are wrong, Mr Doncaster. A strike does not mean inaction. A strike is a strike. A strike is a blow. A blow against the old order. That is why we are striking – to knock down the factory and build a new one in its stead. And in this new factory there will be no division between management and labour. There will only be workers and they will work for themselves. That is why we strike, Mr Doncaster, and that is why you fear us.” He lowers the sheet and says, “And so on and so forth. You get the general gist of the case. It’s not bad, I’ll admit, but it is boring me now and I’m in need of refreshment.”
Boswell is perturbed. “Come on, King-Roo. There’s only a page or two left.”
“Yorky can do it.” He motions for a footman to bring the platter across.
The performance halted, the Earl of Hertford stirs. His tendons strain. He says, “I suggest we resume at a later date. Mr Boswell’s scenario is raw and rather crude and yet it is not without merit. And I must say you fared splendidly as the upstart young gentleman.”
Fortnum-Hyde accepts the compliment with a complacent shrug. He rubs a dab of white powder from the side of his nose. “Rumours that the role was written with me expressly in mind are merely that. Merely rumours.”
“It does play to your strengths, that much was clear. I dearly hope I live long enough to see you take your place as an MP.”
“But not for the Liberals,” the playwright interjects. “Please, Woody, I wish you’d reconsider.”
Lord Hertford says, “The Liberals and Tories are the natural parties of government. Of course, given the choice, he will sit with the Liberals.”
Fortnum-Hyde lowers himself into a vacant armchair. “I go where I’m able to make the greatest impression. If this country needs leadership, let the natural leaders provide it.” He grins wolfishly. “But, I’ll concede, no one would ever mistake me for a typical Liberal. And if they think I’ll toe the line, I am bound to say they do not know me at all.”
“Hear hear,” roars Truman-Jones.
“By God, I mean to shake some trees when I’m there.”
“Hear hear.”
“Shake the trees like a red-arsed baboon. Shake the trees until the fruit falls out.”
When the door opens to admit the funny men, Raine is initially reluctant to remove himself from the entrance. The drawing room, he protests, is crowded enough as it is. He has already had to turn away both Colin George and Sunny Boy who are regarded as the lowliest Long Boys – rude and rowdy, unfit to be sat amid polite company. But Lord Hertford insists the funny men be waved in. He is delighted to see them, the fellows from the cottage. Grantwood prides itself on being a house for heroes. And if it is good enough for the rest of them, it is good enough for Toto and his friends. Indicating the dwarf, he points out that this man spent two days in no-man’s-land, trapped underneath a disabled tank. Who among them can say they spent two days under a tank and survived?
Toto manoeuvres himself into the room. His chair swings into a turning circle and he has to reach across to correct his course. He says, “Thank you, your Lordship, you’re very kind. We don’t like to interrupt. It’s just that we were wondering if we might have a quick word with the girls. It’s about, um, a small business matter.”
“Let’s do it later,” says Fred. “We’re enjoying ourselves here.”
“Shame on you, Raine. Not letting this man in. What were you doing when he was trapped under that tank?”
“I’m sure I don’t know, my Lord.”
“Yes,” scoffs the Earl. “That does sound about right. Weak little men are always sure they don’t know.”
“Steady, old stick,” placates Fortnum-Hyde. “Raine fought with us too, you know.”
“Strength and courage. Those are the qualities that I admire.”
Then, with a sudden hoot of laughter, Fortnum-Hyde points out that even Clarissa did her bit. He is determined that his sister should not be left out. He says he is so proud of his sister, who volunteered as a nurse in the dressing stations of France. She brought great glory to Grantwood; the soldiers were lucky to have her.
Now all eyes are on Clarissa. She unfolds her long legs and leans back, supporting herself on her hands so that her honeyed hair almost touches her father’s knees. She responds to this praise with a crimped, mirthless smile. Once again Lucy is struck by her beauty. The features that have gathered haphazardly on Fortnum-Hyde’s face have found their perfect symmetry on that of his sister. Lucy could look at this Clarissa all evening and yet she remains terribly conscious of the funny men at her back. She wishes they had not followed. She wishes they’d leave.
Fortnum-Hyde says, “Tell them about the time you forgot to sterilise the instruments.”
“Don’t be an idiot.”
But Fortnum-Hyde is enjoying himself. The play did not rouse him, but this is an improvement. “I believe she was known as the Angel of Death. She’d walk into the tent and they would scream for their mothers. They knew as soon as they saw her that the jig was up. She’d lean over their beds and the poor bastards thought they saw heaven. But they knew what that meant and they screamed for their mummies.”
“Man, I tell you,” chortles George Washington from his seat on a stool. “That lady can lean over my sickbed any day that she please.”
“Starch whitey uniform,” says Skinny Boy Floyd. “Damn right, lean on in. Just kill me right now.”
“She will,” hoots Fortnum-Hyde. “She did.”
By now Julius Boswell’s perturbation has bloomed into outright distress. “Gentlemen, please. This is my fiancée, remember.”
“Fuck off the lot of you,” his fiancée retorts.
Fortnum-Hyde helps himself to another dose of white powder. Playfully he says, “Tell them about the time you got the saw stuck in a bone.”
At this Clarissa rises unhurriedly to her feet. She announces, “That’s it for me. It has been terrific fun but I’m going to bed.”
“She did, you know. She got her saw stuck in the bone and couldn’t pull it out.”
Following Clarissa Fortnum-Hyde’s exit the guests appear at a loss for a fresh source of entertainment. Responding to the tension, the footmen pick up the pace and send out the platters. Winifred sniffs and then sneezes, whi
ch affords a shared burst of amusement, but this is over too soon and it is abundantly clear that the conversation has faltered. The guests look to one another in search of assistance. York Conway remarks that, well, one early night might not be such a bad thing.
“Freddy,” says Toto from his perch by the door. “Maybe we ought to think about going back to the cottage.”
“Nonsense,” booms Lord Hertford. “You are very welcome to stay.”
But Toto’s interjection has given the room a new focus. Where the guests once stared at Clarissa, they now swivel in their seats to study the funny men at the rear. Prompted by a sudden unease, Lucy considers getting to her feet and bidding everybody good night. But then the platter is there and it seems rude not to partake.
“Excuse me for asking,” she hears Skinny Boy say, “but one thing’s been nagging on me. How you pick your nose with those hooky hands?”
The subject has been broached; the Rubicon crossed. The musicians succumb to a prolonged fit of the giggles. Finally Sweetpea Long says, “Isn’t it apparent? There’s no mystery here. He has his Scarecrow friend do the picking for him.”
“No, that ain’t it,” chips in George Washington. “He ain’t got no nose so there ain’t nothing to pick.”
“Gentlemen, please,” protests Julius Boswell.
Standing at the door, the Tin Man holds his hooks up for calm. Amiably he says, “No offence taken. In fact I’m bound to say that Mr Washington is right. I have no nose because I have no face.”
Lord Hertford frowns. “You would do well to remember that these men are war heroes. That fellow in the wheelchair spent two days under a tank. The fellow beside him is a decorated airman. I currently forget the provenance of the third man in their party.”
Throughout this exchange, Winifred’s thoughts have evidently been elsewhere. All at once she sits up and says rather loudly, “Do you think me and Lucy could sleep over here for the night?”
Fortnum-Hyde blinks and then smiles. “I think not,” he says blandly.
“Yes,” continues the Earl. “I have momentarily forgotten the provenance of our third honoured guest.”
Lucy is aware of Fred resettling on the stool. But now her attention has been caught by the horrid man. Arthur Elms, who appears to be angling for the chance to play his part as well. In her time at the house she has come to detest Arthur Elms. Everything about him strikes her as somehow off-kilter. He has a habit, she’s noticed, of closing first one eye and then the other, as though each eye reveals a different image. He rubs his fingers in a fury when he thinks nobody is watching. He doesn’t speak a great deal, she supposes he’s nervous, but he makes an effort to roar with approval whenever Fortnum-Hyde makes a joke.
Now, for the first time this evening, he means to make himself heard. He smacks his wet lips, traps his squirming hands in his lap. He says, “You say this bloke was a decorated airman?”
“What’s that?” barks Lord Hertford.
Skinny Boy Floyd rides roughshod over the pair of them. Attempting to reroute the exchange to its original track, he says, “But sweet lord above, I still can’t figure it out. How you wipe your old ass with them hooky hands?”
“Why don’t we have him wipe yours?” the Scarecrow says. “You can find out for yourself.”
“His Scarecrow friend does the wiping for him!”
The Magus coughs and tries again. “Sir. Sir. Are you telling me you were a decorated airman?”
The Scarecrow ignores him. He is awaiting Skinny Boy’s response.
“Aw, simmer down. We were just kidding with you.”
“Excuse me for saying, you don’t sound like an officer, you don’t sound like these fellows. I thought the flying corps was for officers, by and large.”
“That’s true enough,” the Scarecrow says shortly.
“Well then, there we are. All I’m saying, you see, is that you don’t have the accent. Me neither, of course. But then I was never an officer.”
“Freddy,” calls Toto.
“Some airmen started out as engineers,” the Scarecrow explains. “When there was a shortage of officers we were allowed to fly planes.”
“Freddy.”
“Shut up,” says Fred.
Lord Hertford says, “The gentleman we refer to as Scarecrow is a majestic war hero. He rose through the ranks. He shot down many planes. We are honoured to have him as a guest at Grantwood.”
“Well said, old stick.”
“Of course, there’s no denying that it is untoward: a young engineer ascending so high. And perhaps it is to be avoided because it invokes other hazards. I confess that our Scarecrow puts me in mind of Icarus. He flew too close to the sun and sadly melted his wings.” Abstractedly he turns his pale stare in the butler’s direction. “Raine,” he says. “Those statues in the garden.”
“Sir?”
“Icarus,” says Lord Hertford with a sigh. “Never mind. It is of no great importance.”
The Scarecrow draws on his cigarette. “Your feeling is that low-born men should know their place.”
“No,” says Fortnum-Hyde. “That’s not what my father is saying.”
“My feeling is this,” explains the Earl kindly. “Mobility and equality – these are things I will always support. And yet it follows that mobility is most effective and lasting when it is properly regulated. This is why we look to sensible, progressive members of the ruling class. To ensure there is free movement and proper fairness for all.”
“I see,” says the Scarecrow, although it is obvious from the tone of his voice he does not. This is apparent to Lucy – even in her current foggy state – and it is also apparent to York Conway, who has become quite agitated by the direction the discussion has taken. And so over the next minute and a half, his voice trembling with emotion, Conway says a great many things about impertinence and ingratitude and the natural order of things. Indicating Lord Hertford but addressing the Scarecrow, he says, “Let me state it quite plainly. Men like him have done more for men like you than men like you have ever done for yourself.”
Arthur Elms pipes up again. “Anyway, never mind. A pilot in the war, what a wonderful thing. But then the whole war was wonderful. Crash, bang, wallop, I can remember it now.” He beams delightedly about the room. “Cape Helles. Gallipoli. Who else was at Gallipoli?”
When the platter comes by, Lucy drops her head for a refill and discovers too late that she has exceeded her limit. Her temperature jumps and her heart thumps at her ribcage. The walls press in; the velvet hangings are like spun sugar. Usually the powder provokes not much more than a pleasurable tingle. This time it causes her to recoil so forcibly that she slips from the edge of the stool. And now it is as though the ceiling descends more than half the height of the room, so that she feels she might touch it were she to reach up from the floor.
She hears Fred guffaw. “Whoops-a-daisy. Lulu’s down.”
The ceiling drops a further notch. She tries to join in the gaiety but her head is too fogged. Then the Scarecrow swings into the diminishing gap and drags her to her feet. She totters alarmingly like a newborn fawn. “Lucy,” he tells her.
Looking about, she notes venerable Lord Hertford regarding her with faint but genuine concern. “The young lady,” he murmurs. “The little girl.”
“I’m alright really.” But her heart is still skipping and she can feel fresh sweat on her skin. She wonders if maybe she might have passed out for an instant.
Now Lord Hertford has turned to his son to remark that honestly, he does worry the cocaine has a detrimental effect on the system. He has been observing its influence on those guests who have consumed it and has decided that the drug both inflames the blood and quickens conversation. He confesses that everybody has been speaking at such a motorised rate that he has found it difficult to follow precisely what has been said. Even during the recital of the play, the entir
e exchange went by him in a blur.
Fortnum-Hyde gently insists he has nothing to fear. All the powder does, he explains, is separate the weak from the strong. It is no more than a stimulant and, as such, allows men of great strength to achieve their true potential. He leans over his father and plants a tender kiss in his hair. He says, “Please remember, old stick, I take this stuff by the lorry-load. And look at me. I have never been better.”
“Hear hear,” says Truman-Jones.
And yet when Lucy continues to stumble, the decision is taken that the girl has had more than enough. Raine suggests that the funny men return her to the cottage and Conway airily motions that Fred should go too. Outside, the night air hits her like a draft of cold water. Her knee joints have gone liquid; she almost topples again. Painstakingly the Scarecrow walks Toto’s wheelchair down the short run of steps. Unwilling to wait, she runs ahead into the Italian garden and loses herself amid the plaster gods. Her thoughts are so antic she fancies the voices at her back are emanating from them.
Hermes says, “Well played, Lulu, ruining the night for the rest of us. So what if she has to be sent off to bed? I don’t see why I have to go home as well.”
Beside the pond, Poseidon leans into his trident. He says, “You’re getting yourself a fucking attitude, girl. And watch it, watch it, these fucking steps.”
“Lucy!” calls Artemis. “Hang about. Don’t run off.”
To the gods she shouts, “Leave me alone, the lot of you! None of you are real at all!” Her cry rouses the heron, which takes off from the pond in a great pale commotion.
At the loggia’s far end sits another run of stone steps. She scales these at speed and doglegs around to the western wing of the house where the rooms are unoccupied, their effects swaddled beneath dust sheets. Up ahead, in the gloom, a hundred sheep stand immobile. She draws a breath of night air and starts to stagger towards them.