3
After dinner that evening, Walter said that Albert’s first night in England must be celebrated otherwise than by going tamely to bed. Albert, remembering with an inward groan that Walter had always possessed an absolutely incurable taste for sitting up until daylight, submitted, tired though he was, with a good grace; and at half-past eleven they left the house in a taxi. Sally was looking particularly exquisite in a dress which quite obviously came from Patou.
Walter, explaining that it was too early as yet to go to a night club, directed the taxicab to the Savoy, where they spent a fairly cheerful hour trying to make themselves heard through a din of jazz, and taking it in turns to dance with Sally.
After this, they went to a night club called ‘The Witch’, Walter explaining on the way that it had become more amusing since Captain Bruiser had taken it over.
‘All the night clubs now,’ he told Albert, ‘are run by ex-officers; in fact it is rather noticeable that the lower the night club the higher is the field rank, as a rule, of its proprietor.’
Presently they arrived in a dark and smelly mews. Skirting two overflowing dustbins they opened a sort of stable-door, went down a good many stairs in pitch darkness and finally found themselves in a place exactly like a station waiting-room. Bare tables, each with its bouquet of dying flowers held together by wire, were ranged round the walls, the room was quite empty except for a young man playing tunes out of Cochran’s revue on an upright piano. Albert was horrified to see that Walter paid three pounds for the privilege of merely passing through the door into this exhilarating spot.
A weary waiter asked what they would order. A little fruit drink? Apparently no wine of any sort could be forthcoming, not even disguised in a ginger-beer bottle. They asked for some coffee but when it came it was too nasty to drink. This cost another pound. Depression began to settle upon the party, but they sat there for some time valiantly pretending to enjoy themselves.
‘Let’s go on soon,’ said Walter, at the end of an hour, during which no other human being had entered the station waiting-room. They groped their way up the stairs and bumped into a body coming down, which proved to be that of Captain Bruiser. He asked them, in a cheerful, military voice, if they had had a good time. They replied that they had had of all times the best, and thanked him profusely for their delightful evening. He said he was sorry it had been so empty, and told them the names of all the celebrities who were there the night before.
After this, they sat for some while in a taxi, trying to decide where they should go next. The taximan was most helpful, vetoed ‘The Electric Torch’ on account of having as he said, ‘taken some very ordinary gentlemen there earlier in the evening’, and finally suggested ‘The Hay Wain’. ‘Major Spratt is running it now, and I hear it is very much improved.’
To ‘The Hay Wain’ they went. Albert felt battered with fatigue and longed for his bed. This time they approached their destination by means of a fire-escape, and when they had successfully negotiated its filthy rungs, they found themselves in a long, low, rather beautiful attic. There were rushes on the floor, pewter and wild flowers (which being dead, slightly resembled bunches of hay) on the tables, and the seats were old-fashioned oak pews, narrow, upright, and desperately uncomfortable.
A waiter, dressed in a smock which only made him look more like a waiter than ever, handed them a menu written out in Gothic lettering. Ten or twelve other people were scattered about the room, none of them were in evening dress. They all looked dirty and bored.
‘Is Rory Jones singing tonight?’ asked Sally.
‘Yes, madam; Mr Jones will be here in a few moments.’
An hour and a half later Rory Jones did appear, but he had just come from a private party, was tired, and not a little tipsy. After singing his best known and least amusing songs for a few minutes, he staggered away, to the unrestrained fury of Major Spratt, who could be heard expressing himself outside the door in terms of military abuse.
‘Let’s go on, soon.’
‘On,’ thought Albert wearily, ‘never bed?’
The next place they visited, run by a certain Colonel Bumper, was called ‘The Tally-Ho’ and was an enormous basement room quite full of people, noise and tobacco smoke. It appeared that champagne was obtainable here, owing to the fact that the club had been raided by the police the week before and was shortly closing down for good.
Albert thought of Paris night clubs with some regret. He felt that ‘The Hay Wain’ and ‘The Witch’ might be sufficiently depressing, but that ‘The Tally-Ho’ induced a positively suicidal mood – it had just that atmosphere of surface hilarity which is calculated to destroy pleasure.
‘Let’s go on soon,’ said Walter, when they had drunk some very nasty champagne. Despite the cabman’s warning, they now went to ‘The Electric Torch’ but found on arrival that the ‘very ordinary people’ had gone. Moreover the band had gone, the waiters had gone. Alone, amid piled up chairs and tables placed upside down on each other, stood the proprietor, Captain Dumps. He was crying quite quietly into a large pocket handkerchief, and never saw them come or heard them creep silently away.
After this, to Albert’s ill-concealed relief, they went home. It was half-past five and broad daylight poured in at his bedroom window. He calculated with his last waking thoughts that this ecstatic evening must have cost Walter, who had insisted on paying for everything, at least twenty pounds, and he felt vaguely sorry for Sally.
4
The following afternoon at about half-past three Sally and Walter got out of bed and roamed, rather miserably, in their pyjamas.
The daily woman had come and gone, and Albert’s room proved, on inspection, to be empty. After a lengthy discussion as to whether they could bring themselves to eat anything and if so, what, they made two large cups of strong black coffee, which they drank standing and in silence. Sally then announced that she felt as if she were just recovering from a long and serious illness and began to open her morning letters. ‘Bills, bills, and bills! Darling, why did we hire that Daimler to go down to Oxford? There must have been trains, if you come to think of it.’
‘Yes, but – don’t you remember? – we hadn’t an A.B.C. We couldn’t look them up. Give the bill to me.’ He took it from her and began to burn holes in it with his cigarette, but Sally, engrossed in a letter, did not notice.
‘Who’s that from?’
‘Aunt Madge. Listen to it:
‘My Dearest Sally,
‘You will no doubt have seen in the newspapers that your Uncle Craig has been appointed chairman of the mission to New South Rhodesia …
‘Of course I haven’t! Does she imagine I have nothing better to do than read the papers?’
‘Go on,’ said Walter.
‘Where am I? Oh, yes!
‘… This was all very sudden and unexpected and has caused us inconvenience in a thousand ways, but the most unfortunate part of it is that we had arranged, as usual, several large shooting parties at Dalloch Castle. I wrote and asked your father and mother if they would go up there and act as host and hostess, but Sylvia tells me that they have to pay their annual visit to Baden just then. It occurred to me that perhaps you and Walter are doing nothing during August and September, in which case, it would be a real kindness to us if you would stay at Dalloch and look after our guests. I know that this is a big thing to ask you to do and, of course, you must say no if you feel it would be too much for you. If you decide to go we will send you up in the car and you must invite some of your own friends. Dalloch will hold any amount of people.
‘Yrs. affecly.,
‘Madge Craigdalloch.
‘PS. – General Murgatroyd, a great friend of your Uncle Craig’s, will be there to look after the keepers, etc.’
There was a long silence. Walter sat down rather heavily.
‘Well?’ said Sally.
‘Well, what?’
‘Shall we do it? Listen, my precious. I know it would be awful and I expect you’d simply hate it, poor sweet, and nothing to what I should, but still, facts must be faced. If we do this we shall save money for two solid months, and after that, if you like, we could probably afford to spend a little time in Paris, if we could let the flat. Albert might be able to tell us of some nice cheap hotel there.’
Walter became sulkier every minute.
‘I won’t stay at a cheap hotel in Paris. Paris to me means the Ritz. I’m very sorry – it’s the way I’m made. Besides, it’s well known to be cheaper in the end to stay at the Ritz, because otherwise one has to keep taking taxis there to see who’s arrived. And I won’t let the flat. It never pays to let houses, because of all the damage that is done by tenants.’
‘Perhaps we could manage to have a week at the Ritz if we went to Scotland, funny creature,’ she said, tickling the back of his neck.
Walter laughed and began kissing her hand, one finger at a time.
‘What d’you think, then?’
‘How d’you mean? What do I think?’
‘Walter, you’re being extremely tiresome, darling. You know quite well what I mean.’
‘My precious angel, I’ve often noticed how clever you are at getting your own way, and if you’ve really made up your mind that we’ve got to have two months of potted hell in Scotland I suppose nothing can save us. But I should just like to say here and now, that I’m quite sure it would be cheaper in the end to go to the Lido. I know you wouldn’t think so, but these economies always lead to trouble; I’ve seen it so often.’
‘But, darling, we haven’t even to pay our railway journey if we go in the car, and there can’t be any expenses up there.’
‘Well, mark my words. Anyhow, if we go, let’s make Albert come too, then we might get some fun out of it.’
‘Yes, of course, and we could ask some other chums. Jane, perhaps. It won’t be too bad really, you know. Sweet darling, not to make a fuss – are you sure you don’t mind terribly? Shall I ring up Aunt Madge now?’ She kissed the top of Walter’s head and went over to the telephone.
‘Hullo? Is Lady Craigdalloch there? … Mrs Monteath … Don’t wander about, Walter, it puts me off. No, don’t – that’s my coffee … Hullo, Aunt Madge? Sally speaking … Yes, we’ve just got it … Well, we think we’d love to … No, sweet of you. Can we come and see you sometime and talk it over? … Yes, of course, you must be frightfully. When do you go? … Oh, goodness what a rush for you! … Yes, we could be there in about half an hour … All right, we’ll meet you there … No, perfect for us. Good-bye!’
Sally hung up the receiver.
‘Where d’you think we’ve got to meet them? You’d never guess, but it’s so typical of them, really. The House of Lords! So come on, my angel, and dress, because I said we’d be there in half an hour.’
Sally and Walter were perched rather uncomfortably on a red leather fireguard in the Prince’s Chamber of the House of Lords. The magnificent personage, of whom they had inquired whether they could see Lord Craigdalloch, presently returned from his quest for that nobleman. ‘His lordship says he may be a little time, but I will inform her ladyship that you are here. Meanwhile, would you wait a few moments?’ He walked rather pompously to the other end of the room where he stood motionless.
‘Well, he doesn’t seem to be informing her,’ said Sally, ‘unless by telepathy. Still, I’m quite happy here, aren’t you? Of course, it just is one’s spiritual home, that’s all. Why didn’t I marry a peer? I’d really forgotten what a divine place it is, such ages since I’ve been here.’
‘Like church, isn’t it? I keep expecting the organ to peal forth. It rather reminds me of our wedding in some ways.’
‘More like a mausoleum, really. D’you see that very old man over there?’
‘I see the seven oldest living creatures, if you mean one of them.’
‘The one with the greenish face over by the statue of Queen Victoria.’
‘My dear, I hadn’t noticed him. But how awful! Can’t we help in some way? Is he dying?’
‘Oh, I expect sort of vaguely he is. This place mummifies people you know, without their having to die first, and they often go on creeping about like that for years. That’s why they’re called Die Hards. It is a most descriptive name for them, poor old sweets. Anyway, that particular one is a great friend of Daddy’s, and he disinherited his eldest son for marrying a Catholic.’
‘Not really? It’s rather heavenly to think such people do still exist. What happened to the son, though – was he quite broke?’
‘Oh, no, not at all; the Catholic was immensely rich. So, to pay the old boy out, they took the grouse moor next to his in Scotland and started a stoat and weasel farm on it and quite soon all his grouse were eaten up by the weasels. Daddy says he never got over it – it nearly broke his heart.’
Walter looked round him for a few minutes in silence. ‘I haven’t seen anybody the least aristocratic-looking yet,’ he remarked presently, ‘except, of course, the boy friend who is by way of informing your aunt that we are here. He’s a lovely man, but all the others look exactly like very old and decrepit doctors. I can imagine any of them pulling out a thermometer and saying, “Well, well, and how are we today? Put out your tongue and say ‘Ah.’” Now, there is rather a spry-looking one by the door. He might be a dentist or a masseur. What’s the muttering about in the next room?’
‘Someone making a speech. Uncle Craig, most likely, as they’re all trooping out. They can put up with a lot here (they have to, poor angels!), but it’s only the ones who can’t walk that stay and listen to Uncle Craig, and you should see the expression on their faces when they realize what they’re in for – pitiful, like trapped animals!
‘I heard him speak once about the peeresses in their own right who want to sit in the House of Lords. It was quite unintelligible and no wonder. His only real reason for not wanting them is that he thinks they might have to use the peers’ lavatory, and, of course, he couldn’t say that. Another time he was speaking on the Prayer Book, but somehow he got all his notes mixed up so the last half of his speech was all about new sewers for Bixton. Nobody noticed, of course, and he was able to square the reporters afterwards. Such an old duck, you know, but not exactly cut out to be a legislator.’
‘It has often occurred to me to wonder, if there were a revolution tomorrow, how the mob would know which were the nobles,’ said Walter. ‘Personally I’ve always been terrified that I should be left behind when all my friends were being hurried off in the tumbrils to the echoing cry of “A bas les aristos!” Never mind, I shall have my turn next day when the intelligentsia is being wiped out.’
‘On the contrary, my angel, you’ll hang about hoping for weeks, until at last, after all your acquaintances have died gloriously in front of Buckingham Palace or the Albert Memorial, you’ll be pitched into the Thames with the other bourgeois.’
‘Of course, it just would be one’s luck. Now who’d mind going to the scaffold between Lord Lonsdale and Mrs Meyrick! It would give one a social kick, you know. Think of the papers next day!
‘Among others I noticed on the scaffold yesterday Walter Monteath, the poet, was wearing his favourite green tie and chatting to Lord Lonsdale. He told me that his wife was busy at the moment but hopes to attend the executions today. Picture on back page.
‘But as for all those old peers, they’ll have to parade up and down Piccadilly in their coronets if they want to be taken in the smart tumbrils, and even then I expect people would think they were an advertisement for something.’
At this moment the magnificent personage strolled up to where Walter and Sally were sitting and said that Lord Craigdalloch was about to speak and if they would care to follow him he would conduct them to the Strangers’ Gallery, which he then proceeded to do, leading them up and down several corridors and staircases until they came to
a small door, through which he pushed them into inky blackness. They groped their way to seats into which they subsided thankfully. Far below them there emerged from the gloom a sort of choked muttering.
After a few moments their eyes became more or less accustomed to the darkness and they were able to distinguish various objects – the throne, the Peeresses’ Gallery, occupied by the stately figure of Lady Craigdalloch, who blew kisses to them, and two or three large tables at which some men were writing. Finally, they recognized Lord Craigdalloch. He was standing near one of the tables, and the muttering seemed to proceed from his lips. Sally was sorry, though in no way surprised, to notice that his audience consisted solely of themselves, Aunt Madge, an old bearded man seated on one of the benches with a pair of crutches just out of his reach and another stretched at full length on a red divan.
The Monteaths feverishly endeavoured to catch a few words of what their uncle was saying, but without success. As they sat straining their ears, two Frenchmen were shown into the gallery and, feeling their way to a seat, began to converse in whispers. They seemed much intrigued by the man on the divan.
‘Dites donc, ce lord sur le sofa, il est saou?’
‘Je dirais plutôt malade.’
‘Eh bien, moi j’crois qu’il est ivre.’
‘Que c’est lugubre ici.’
‘Oui, rudement rasant.’
Lord Craigdalloch now raised his voice slightly and the words, ‘the noble lord behind me …’ were heard.
‘The noble lord behind him has evidently slipped away,’ murmured Sally, observing the rows of empty benches.
The old man with the beard now began to scrabble feverishly for his crutches, and finally, after a prolonged and unsuccessful effort to reach them, took off his watch-chain and lassoed one of them with it. He then hooked the other one with the crutch part and drew it towards him. Having planted them firmly underneath his armpits he hopped away with incredible agility, not, however, before Lord Craigdalloch had just time to say, loudly and portentously, ‘My noble friend opposite.’
The Penguin Complete Novels of Nancy Mitford Page 3