The Penguin Complete Novels of Nancy Mitford

by Nancy Mitford

  ‘And it seems that his real name is Dextrovitch.’

  ‘He told me his mother was a Whale.’

  ‘She was. His father, Dextrovitch, became an American just before he was born. They say they have evidence now that Hector has been a Bolshevist all his life, his father brought him up to be one. It’s a most interesting story really. The father saw his two brothers shot by the Tsarist police, he escaped to America, married this rich Whale, and had Hector.’

  ‘Can you beat it,’ said Grace. ‘Where’s Papa – do let’s go and tell him.’

  Of course the journey to Paris was greatly enlivened for Grace, Charles-Edouard, and Nanny by the Dexter story, which now filled all the newspapers. Hector Dexter, it seemed, was worth at least ten atom bombs to the Russians. He had held jobs of the highest responsibility for years, had always been persona grata at the White House, where he knew his way about better than anybody except the President himself, had never been denied access to any information anywhere, and was one of the most brilliant of living men. Great stress was laid upon how deeply he was beloved by his countless friends (good old Heck) in London, Paris, and New York. Many of these refused to believe that he had gone to Russia of his own accord, but were quite certain that the whole family must have been kidnapped, putting forward as evidence that Carolyn had left her fur coat behind. ‘I suppose they’ve never heard of Russian sables,’ Charles-Edouard said when Grace read this out to him.

  Asp Jorgmann and Charlie Jungfleisch were interviewed in Paris. ‘Whatever Heck may have done,’ they said, ‘he remains a very very good friend of ours.’

  But the French Ambassador to London, who was on the train and with whom Charles-Edouard went to sit for a while, told him that his American colleague regarded it as worth quite a lot of atom bombs to be relieved of good old Heck’s company for ever. ‘He’s supposed to have gone straight off for a conference with Beria. Well, I feel awfully sorry for Beria.’

  ‘Perhaps he won’t mind as much as we do; we’re always told the Russians have no sense of time,’ said Charles-Edouard.

  ‘It does seem strange, dear, such a good daddy. And fancy Mrs Dexter too. What will Nanny Dexter say?’

  ‘You must ring her up the very minute we arrive and see if she’s still there.’

  Sigi sat by his mother in a fit of deep sulks, his mouth down at the corners, his clever little black eyes roving to and fro like those of an animal cornered at last. When the train was nearly at Dover the clever little black eyes suddenly had their attention fixed. The Bunbury burglar was walking up the Pullman on his way, no doubt, to the Trianon bar. Charles-Edouard was asleep in his corner, and Grace half-asleep in hers.

  ‘Where are you going, Sigi?’ she said, as he slipped out of his seat.

  ‘Just to stretch my poor scar.’

  ‘Well don’t be long, we’re nearly at Dover. You’ll be able to lie down on the boat,’ she said, ‘poor darling.’

  He sidled off, and found his burglar alone in the bar, drinking whisky.

  ‘Good Lord,’ said the burglar. ‘It’s you! Where are you off to?’

  ‘Paris. I’m a French boy, like I told you. And I’m going home with my father and mother, but leaving my appendix in London.’

  ‘Oh dear. They ought to have given it you in a bottle.’

  ‘Are you coming to Paris too?’

  ‘I hope so. If nothing awkward happens on the way.’

  Sigi got very close to him and said confidentially, ‘Have you got anything you’d rather I carried through the Customs for you? My papa travels to and fro the whole time, they all know him, he never has anything opened.’

  The burglar looked at him and said, ‘Whose side are you on now?’

  Sigi began twisting up his curls. ‘On your side, like I was last time, if you remember, until you sausaged me. But although it was very treacherous, what you did, I do feel I owe you a good turn to make up for shutting you in the cupboard.’

  ‘Mm,’ said the burglar doubtfully. They were passing through Dover Town station, sea and cliffs were in sight, seagulls mewed, and passengers began to fuss.

  ‘White horses,’ said Sigi. ‘Poor Nanny.’

  At last the burglar said, ‘All right. If you like to give me a hand with this.’ He passed him a small leather writing-case.

  ‘Coo!’ said Sigi. ‘Heavy, isn’t it?’

  ‘Heavy because full of gold.’

  ‘Can I see?’

  ‘No. We’re arriving. Be a good boy, bring it to me on the boat, cabin 11, can you remember? Then I’ll give you a bit for a keep-sake.’

  ‘Oh here he is. You shouldn’t wander off like that, darling, we were quite worried.’ The train stopped with a bump.

  ‘What’s that satchel, dear?’ Nanny asked as they went towards the Customs shed.

  ‘I’m looking after it for Papa –’

  ‘That makes eighteen pieces then – I’d only counted seventeen. Where is that porter going?’

  Charles-Edouard told Grace and Nanny to go on board. ‘I’ll see to the luggage.’ He gave Grace their tickets. ‘And it’s cabin No. 7.’

  ‘Eighteen pieces of luggage, sir.’

  ‘Thank you, Nanny. Run along, Sigi.’

  ‘No, no,’ said Sigi, ‘this is the part I enjoy.’

  Charles-Edouard laughed and said to Grace, ‘We saw some idiot taken away last time, for smuggling, I suppose he hopes for the best again.’

  ‘I do. Very much indeed.’

  A huge heap of luggage, mostly, of course, belonging to Sigi, was piled on to the counter in the Customs shed. Charles-Edouard stood by, with his back to the counter, talking to a friend who was in the Ambassador’s party. They were both roaring with laughter still about the Dexters.

  Sigi put his little writing-case on top of the other things and said, confidentially, to the Customs man, ‘If I were you, officer, I would take a look inside that.’

  ‘These all your things, sir?’ The officer leant forward and spoke rather loudly to Charles-Edouard, who replied, half-looking round, ‘Yes, yes, all mine’, and went on talking with his friend. The officer, who knew Charles-Edouard by sight, began chalking the cases as he passed them.

  Sigi, getting very fidgety, said, ‘You mustn’t mark that one without opening it first.’

  The officer laughed. ‘What are you up to? Smuggling?’

  ‘Not me, my papa. Oh do look – do look inside.’

  The officer good-naturedly snapped open the case, which seemed at first sight to contain coffee in half-pound bags. Still laughing, he took one out. Then his face changed. He tore open the bag and gave a loud whistle. Charles-Edouard was saying to his friend ‘See you in a few minutes then.’ The friend went on out of the shed and Charles-Edouard turned to the Customs officer who said, ‘Excuse me, sir, is this your case?’

  ‘I think so. If it’s with the others,’ he said, rather puzzled at the sudden gravity of the man’s expression.

  ‘Then I’m afraid I must ask you to follow me.’

  ‘Follow you. Why?’

  ‘This way, sir, please.’

  ‘Yes, but why?’

  ‘Your case is full of gold coins,’ said the officer, showing him.

  ‘Nom de nom,’ said Charles-Edouard, very much taken aback. ‘But wait a moment, that’s not my case, I’ve never seen it before.’

  ‘You’ve just said it was yours, sir.’

  ‘Sigi – does this case belong to you?’

  ‘Oh no, Papa, you gave it to me to hold, don’t you remember?’ Sigi was wildly twisting up his hair.

  Two Englishwomen said to each other, ‘Shame, making the child smuggle for him.’

  Charles-Edouard gave Sigi a very searching look and said, ‘Sigismond, what is all this? Now will you please go on board this minute, go to cabin 1, find M. l’Ambassadeur and ask him to come here.’

  Sigi ran off and Charles-Edou
ard followed the Customs man into a back office.

  When Sigi got on to the ship he made no effort to find cabin 1 or the Ambassador. Since he had time to get rid of, and did not want to run into his burglar, he made his way to the ladies’ room, where, as he knew he would, he found Nanny lying down with her skirt off and occupying the entire attention of the stewardess, who stood over her with a bottle of sea-sick tablets. ‘Not as bad as all that,’ the stewardess was saying, ‘bumpier this side. You go right off to sleep, dear, that’ll be the best.’

  ‘And what about the little monkey?’

  ‘I’ll be all right,’ said Sigi. ‘I’m just waiting for the boat to start and then I’ll go and find Mummy. I’ve got some very interesting news for Mummy, but only when we’ve started.’

  ‘Won’t be long now,’ said the stewardess, looking at her watch.

  Meanwhile the Ambassador’s servant had arrived in his cabin, saying, ‘M. le Marquis de Valhubert is in trouble with the Customs and it doesn’t look as if they will allow him to travel.’

  The Ambassador did not hesitate. He had a word with the ship’s captain and immediately went on shore again, accompanied by an officer who took him straight to the room where Charles-Edouard was talking with several Customs men.

  ‘What is all this about?’ said the Ambassador, in English.

  Charles-Edouard said furiously, ‘My child, who seems to be a member of the criminal classes, has planted a case full of gold coins on me. Don’t ask me how he got them. I’m in a very awkward position indeed.’

  The Ambassador said to the senior official, ‘It’s absolutely out of the question that M. de Valhubert should be smuggling gold. You need not consider it even as a possibility. There must be a mistake.’

  ‘Yes, sir, we feel sure there is. But we must find out where all this gold comes from. Where is the little boy?’

  ‘He went off to find you,’ Charles-Edouard said to the Ambassador.

  ‘I haven’t seen him. My valet told me you’d been delayed, that’s why I came.’

  ‘It was most good of you, mon cher, I’m exceedingly grateful.’

  ‘I could do no less.’

  Another official now put his head round the door.

  ‘Mr Porter, please, one moment.’

  Mr Porter, went out, and was back again almost at once.

  ‘I think we’ve got to the bottom of it,’ he said. ‘A man has just been arrested on board. If I might have your name and address, sir, you’ve time to catch the boat, I’m very glad to say.’

  Charles-Edouard gave him his card and hurried on board with the Ambassador.

  Sigi’s timing had gone a little bit wrong, and he had arrived in his mother’s cabin rather before he meant to. Charles-Edouard, from outside, heard a well-known voice piping, ‘He has always been wrapped up in Madame Novembre – it doesn’t surprise me in the least. They’re made for each other, and now they’ve gone off together – oh yes, Mummy, I saw them, I tell you, in her Cadillac.’

  Charles-Edouard burst open the door, saying, in a voice which neither Sigi nor Grace had ever heard, and which turned Sigi to stone with terror, ‘Sigismond’. This was followed by a tremendous box on the ears. The three of them stood looking at each other for a moment. Then Charles-Edouard, mastering his temper, said, ‘What you need, my child, is a family of little brothers and sisters, and we must try to see that you get them. And now, please run along and find Nanny.’

  DON’T TELL ALFRED

  TO ANNA MARIA CICOGNA

  1

  On the day which was to be such a turning-point in my life, I went to London by the 9.07. I had planned to do a little shopping; somebody had told me of Chinese robes in the sales, perfect for dinner at home since they would cover up everything. I was also going to see my naughty boy, Basil, a perennial worry to me; Aunt Sadie begged me to look in on Uncle Matthew and there was something I had long wanted to put to him. I had appointments to lunch with the one and to have tea with the other. It was a Saturday because that was Basil’s half-holiday – he was cramming for the Foreign Office. We were to meet at a restaurant, then go back to his lodgings, what used to be called ‘rooms’ and is now called a ‘service flat’. My idea was to do a little, surely much needed, tidying up there, as well as to collect some dirty clothes, and bring them back with me to have them washed or cleaned. I took a large canvas hold-all to contain them and the Chinese robe, if I bought it.

  But, oh dear, I don’t think I’ve ever looked such a fool as I did in that Chinese robe, with my brown walking shoes, enormous beneath the hem, hair untidy from dragging off a hat, leather bag clasped to bosom because it had £28 in it and I knew that people snatched bags at sales. The assistant earnestly said think of the difference if I were carefully coiffée and maquillée and parfumée and manicurée and pedicurée, wearing Chinese sandals (next department, 35/6) and lying on a couch in a soft light. It was no good, however – my imagination could not get to work on all these hypotheses; I felt both hot and bothered; I tore the robe from me and fled from the displeasure of the saleswoman.

  I had made my plan with Basil some days before, on the telephone. Like all the children he is quite incapable of either reading or writing a letter. I was rather more worried about him than usual; last time he had come to Oxford his clothes had been distinctly on the Teddy side while his hair combed (or rather pulled) over his forehead and worn in a bob at the back gave him a curiously horrible look. This, no doubt, is now the fashion and not in itself a cause for alarm. But when he was alone with me he had spoken about his future, saying that the prospect of the Foreign Service bored him and that he thought he could put his talent for languages to better account in some other career. The sinister words ‘get rich quick’ were uttered. I was anxious to see him again and ask a few questions. It was a blow, therefore, though not a great surprise, when he failed to turn up at the restaurant. I lunched there alone and then went off to find his service flat. The address he had given me, in Islington, turned out to be a pretty old house, come down in the world (soon no doubt to come down altogether). There were five or six bells at the front door with cards attached; one bell had no card but somebody had scribbed Baz on the wall beside it. I pressed it, without much hope. Nobody came. I went on pressing at intervals.

  A sharp lad in Teddy costume was lounging in the street, eyeing me. Presently he came up and said, ‘If it’s old Baz you’re after, he’s gone to Spain.’

  Rain, rain, go to Spain. ‘And when will he be back again?’

  ‘When he comes for the next batch. Old Baz is a travel agent now, didn’t you know? Joined up with his Grandad – some people are lucky in their relations. Baz herds them out to the Costa Brava, goes into hiding while they live it up there and brings back the bodies a week later. Or that’s the general idea – he’s only just started the work.’

  Travel agent – Grandad – what did the child mean? Was not this a line of talk intended to keep me here until a man who was walking up the street should be out of sight? There was nobody else about, this dread Teddy, armed, no doubt, with blades, was clearly after my bag and the £28. I gave him a nervous, idiotic smile. ‘Thank you very much,’ I said, ‘that’s just what I thought. Good-bye and thank you.’

  Upper Street was near and very soon I was in a good old No. 19 sagely ambling towards Piccadilly. This sort of thing always happened when I tried to see Basil. Oh well, one must put oneself in his shoes. Why should he want to spend his Saturday afternoon with a middle-aged mother? What a bore for a young man, on his own for the first time, to have to watch this elderly woman messing about in his room and taking away his suits. All the same, it was not like him to throw one over quite so callously; what could have happened? How could I find out? Meanwhile here I was in London on a Saturday afternoon with nothing to do until tea-time. We were passing the National Gallery, but I felt too dispirited to go in. I decided to walk off my bad temper in the Park.

  T
hough I have lived in London for longish periods at various times in my life, I have never been a Londoner, so that its associations to me are more literary and historic than personal. Every time I visit it I am saddened by seeing changes for the worse: the growing inelegance; the loss of character; the disappearance of landmarks and their replacement by flat and faceless glass houses. When I got off my bus at Hyde Park Corner, I looked sadly at the huge hotel where Montdore House used to be, in Park Lane. When first built it had been hailed as a triumph of modern architecture, but although it had only stood there for three years it had already become shabby, the colour of old teeth, and in an odd way out of date. I stumped off towards Kensington Gardens. Somebody had told me that Knightsbridge Barracks were soon to go, so I said good-bye to them. I had never looked at them very carefully – I now saw that they were solid and well built in a pretty mixture of brick and stone. No masterpiece, but certainly far better than the glorified garage that would replace them. Wendy’s Wishing Well is horribly altered, I noted, and what has happened to the trees in the Broad Walk? However, Kensington Palace is still there, though probably not for long, and eccentric old men are still sailing boats on the Round Pond, which has not, as yet, been dried and levelled and turned into a car park.

  Presently, drops of rain began to fall. It was half-past three. Uncle Matthew never minds one being early; I decided to make for his mews at once. If he were in he would be pleased to see me, if not I could wait for him in a little sheltered place where the dustbins are kept.

  Uncle Matthew had handed over Alconleigh to his only surviving son, Bob Radlett, keeping a small Regency house on the estate for himself. Aunt Sadie was delighted by this exchange; she liked being nearer the village; the new house got sunshine all day and it amused her to do it up. Indeed, newly painted from top to toe and containing what little good furniture there had been at Alconleigh, it had become a much more desirable residence than the other. But hardly had they moved into it than my uncle fell out with Bob: the eternal story of the old king and the young king. Bob had his own ideas about shooting and estate management; Uncle Matthew disagreed violently with every innovation. His son-in-law, Fort William, his brother-in-law, Davey Warbeck, and such neighbours as were on speaking terms with Uncle Matthew had all warned him that this would happen; they had been invited to mind their own business. Now that they had been proved right he refused to admit the real cause of his chagrin and persuaded himself that Bob’s wife, Jennifer, was to blame. He pronounced his intense dislike for her; her vicinity, he said, was not to be endured. Poor Jennifer was quite inoffensive, she only wished to please and this was so obvious that even Uncle Matthew, when asked to explain the reason for his hatred, found himself at a loss. ‘Meaningless piece of flesh,’ he would mutter. Undeniable; Jennifer was one of those women whose meaning, if they have one, is only apparent to husband and children, but she certainly did not deserve such a torrent of hatred.